LITTLE BOY BLACK 

AND 

OTHER SKETCHES 


BETTY REYNOLDS COBB 





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LITTLE BOY BLACK 

AND OTHER SKETCHES 



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“Celie, dar^s givine ter he er Apartment.’’—Page 110 
































I 

LITTLE 
BOY BLACK 

AND OTHER SKETCHES 

By BETTY REYNOLDS COBB 

u 



ILLUSTRATED BY j 
JOHN E. CRAMER, Jr/ 


THE J. W. BURKE COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 
MACON, GEORGIA- 
1926 
































a> 






Copyright, 1926 
By Mrs. Betty Reynolds Cobb 


* * 

♦ I 

♦ 'j t' 




KOV 29 1926 


I 



Cl A y 5 7 3 4 


5 



V 


To 

or rMa ster 



CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Little Boy Black_ 13 

Ol’ Ma’ster _ 29 

Love and Politics_ 49 

Aunt Savannah’s White Folks _ 71 

Uncle Lige Pleads His Own Case_ 91 

The Owl Foretells A Parting_ 105 

The Coward _ 121 

Miss Julie's Ring _ 139 

Counsel For Defense_ 157 













LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

'‘Celie, dars gwine ter be er apartment _Frontispiece 


''Dafs er privilege dat's done been deVgated ter we- 
alls by de gov mint, 'spite er race, color er prevus 
condition o' serbitude _ 54 

• 

''Dar am er heap o' dut, er heap o' dut, en de people 

do lib so raggedy." _ 84 

'‘Ma's Phil wus gwine ter de Ian whar dey don't gib 

no furlo's _ 150 






« 



LITTLE BOY BLACK 



LITTLE BOY BLACK 


HEN Sabry came to be woman-of-all-work 



* ^ about the house she brought with her a 
hanger-on, in the person of a small son of Ham in 
sexless garments,—a baby boy aged four. 

“I am afraid he will be dreadfully in the way,” 
sighed Mrs. Rawlins, but you have to keep him 
with you, of course. What is your name, boy?” 

“McWilliam McHenry McKinley McGhee,” was 
the surprising answer. 

“My time is too precious for all that,” laughed 
Mrs. Rawlins, “let’s shorten it.” 

“We calls him Kinley,” proffered Sabry. 

“Wait a minute,” cried May Rawlins, the young 
daughter of the house, looking quizically into the 
little black face, while she searched her mind for 
a name better suited to his small person. “I have 
it!” she exclaimed. 

“Little Boy Black, come call your hogs, 

Pigoo, pigee, pigoo!” 

And “Little Boy Black” he became from that hour 
on, and, to May, a great source of amusement. 

He was more precocious than the average child 
of his race, which is saying a great deal for Little 


15 


6 


LITTLE BOY BLACK 


Boy Black. He soon came to look upon May, as 
the giver of pleasant gifts, and was always lying 
in wait. 

“I boun’ you don’t know whut I’m bangin’ ’roun’ 
fer,” he would say, putting his little black face in 
at the door, and making an effort to wipe the look 
of expectancy from his features. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” May would affirm. 

“I’s hangin’ ’roun’ fer er bistit.” 

He always got the “bistit”, and usually some¬ 
thing added. 

Little Boy Black, however, possessed many of the 
characteristics of his race, besides the flat nose. 
May came unexpectedly into the dining room, one 
morning, to find him surreptitiously filling his pock¬ 
ets with fruit, taken from the tabic. 

“Without so much as saying ‘If you please’, ” 
said May, reproachfully. 

The little rascal rose to the occasion. “Ef you 
please, ma’m,” he said glibly. Then he made a 
move in defense. “I wus des playin’ wid yo’ 
apples.” 

May laughed uproariously. 

“May, you spoil that child shamefully,” said 
Mrs. Rawlins. “It is wrong.” 

“Why, he is only a baby. Mother,” May de- 


LITTLE BOY BLACK 


17 


fended herself. “You know I just have to have 
something to pet.” 

May was just at the age to air her opinions and 
feel wise. In defending herself for the attentions 
bestowed upon Little Boy Black, she became posi¬ 
tively didactic. , 

“All healthy minded people love children,” she 
said. “Some show a marked degree of partiality, 
loving only the good and the beautiful; as for 
myself—” ,, 

“Oh, you”, interrupted her mother, “you are 
like the admirer of Sentimental Tommy, the 
wickeder they are the better pleased you be; as 
for myself, I prefer them white.” 

“Now that isn’t fair,” May demurred. “To me 
Little Boy Black represents childhood in the ab¬ 
stract. He is the only child in sight and for that 
reason. Dad and I, at least, are going to lavish 
some of our surplus affection on him.” 

It was about this time that May chose her life 
profession,—for the third time. This time it was 
kindergarten work, and she began trying some of 
her pet theories on Little Boy Black, who proved 
very apt. The make-believe instinct was raised to 
the nth power in him. 

“Let’s play Jacky-Boy,” he would beg, and for 
that day he would insist upon being called “Jacky- 


LITTLE BOY BLACK 


Boy”. So realistic did the play become to him, 
when he pretended that he was the little white boy, 
who often visited the Rawlins home, that he re¬ 
fused to have anything to do with his mother, and 
referred to her as “the cook”. 

“Where is Little Boy Black?” asked May, while 
he was playing Jacky-Boy. 

“Ugh,” said the little rascal, “I ’spec’ he down 
ter de big house tryin’ ter steal sumpen.” 

“I am cultivating his imagination,” May in¬ 
formed her father that night, when she told him 
this story. “I might be training up a Paul Dunbar, 
mightn’t I, Daddy?” , 

“It is possible,” laughed her father, “then you 
might be unfitting him for the only thing for which 
the negro of the South is adapted,—a servant.” 

“I do not want to do him any harm, father,—if 
you think I might—” 

Mr. Rawlins laughed indulgently. “Oh, go 
ahead, if it amuses you. I do not suppose it will 
have much effect one way or another.” 

And May did go ahead. When a girl lives far 
out in the country, and has imagination, she often 
amuses herself in strange ways. Many after¬ 
noons, when she might have been playing bridge, 
had she lived in some urban community. May was 
to be found, curled up in a big chair, telling tales 


LITTLE BOY BLACK 


19 


to Little Boy Black, who would lie on a rug at her 
feet for hours. 

They were thus engaged, one day, when Tom 
put his shock of brown hair in at the window and 
announced a visitor. 

“It’s Big Medicine, Sis. In what capacity does 
he call?” 

May understood that by ‘Big Medicine” Tom 
meant Hugh Haden, just home from medical col¬ 
lege. 

“For shame, Tom,” she laughed, “if Hugh has 
a good opinion of himself, he is not the only one. 
There are others—” 

“Of course, there are others,” laughed Tom. 
“Look out, Little Boy Black, Big Medicine will be 
carrying your Miss May off.” 

“Who, dat white man?” asked Little Boy Black 
impudently, as he rolled over on the rug and 
looked coolly at the “white man” in question, who 
was coming up the walk. 

If Tom had created an embarrassing situation, 
he was good enough to come to the rescue. He 
swung himself easily in at the window and went 
to meet Hugh with a laugh. But Little Boy Black 
was quicker than he. 

“Is you gwine ter ca’y Mi’ May off?” he asked 
dryly. 


20 


LITTLE BOY BLACK 


“Get out, Boy,” said Tom, givng him a push, 
“this is not the doctor, you know.” 

Little Boy Black was a creature of strange fan¬ 
cies. Big Medicine, as Tom insisted on calling 
Hugh Haden was, to him, little short of an ogre, 
and for weeks he kept out of his way. 

However, Hugh had something in his pocket, 
one day, that made him forget his fears. He 
would have braved more for a piece of candy than 
Shakespeare’s fifth-stage man for that bubble, reputa¬ 
tion. From that time on, he and Hugh were friends. 

True to Mrs. Rawlins’ prophesy, too much atten¬ 
tion proved bad for his manners. Fie soon came 
to look for it, as due, not only from the family, 
but from visitors as well. 

One day, when May and Hugh w:re on the 
lawn, he came and threw himself on the grass near 
by. 

“I boun’ you don’t know whut I’s bangin’ ’roun’ 
fer,” he said, with his irresistible grin spreading 
over his face. 

“Candy,” said May throwing him a piece from 
the box she held in her lap. 

“Money,” ventured Hugh, pitching him a dime. 

His eyes widened, but he did not go. He lay kick¬ 
ing the grass with his bare toes, while he talked to 
himself. 


LITTLE BOY BLACK 


21 


“I gwine ter ax her,” he muttered. “Mammy say 
I better not, but I is.” 

He sat up suddenly. “Mi’ May, is you gwine ter 
ma’y dat white man?” 

“Hush,” May hissed, throwing him more can¬ 
dy. “There, take that to Sabry.” 

“But is you?” He grew - insistent. “Mammy 
say you is, but when I ax Mr. Tom, he ’low I know 
you aint gwine ter ma’y Big Medicine.” 

“You little rascal.” May’s voice broke, on the 
verge of tears. “Don’t you ever come near me 
again.” 

“Oh, come May,” Hugh laughed easily, “don’t 
mind the rascal. Tom put him up to that. But 
don’t mind Tom, either; just come, answer the little 
devil’s question.” 

“I hate you! I just hate you!” May said, un¬ 
reasonably, as she jumped up, and with her hands 
to her burning cheeks fled into the house. From 
the window she watched Hugh as he slowly rode 
away, hurt and angry. 

Little Boy Black always took May’s displeasure 
much to heart, and, on this occasion, sued for 
peace persistently. 

“Mi’ May,” he called the next morning, as he 
softly tapped at her door, “dis am yo’ pickaninny, 
en I done brung you a flower; please let me in.” 


22 


LITTLE BOY BLACK 


May could not resist his pleadings, and opened 
the door. 

“Is you mad wid me, Mi’ May?’’ he asked con¬ 
tritely. 

“Yes,’’ she said crossly, “you have been bad.’’ 

“Ain’t I gwine ter git ter go ter heben, now?’’ He 
had the inherent piety of his race. 

“I am told they do not take bad boys,’’ laughed 
May, “but run along and get my mail.’’ 

He returned with a letter that made her forget 
his offense. In it a visitor was announced, and the 
next day she arrived—->a small elfin thing, with 
golden curls and eyes of the sky’s own blue. At 
first Little Boy Black looked on in evident wonder, 
then he turned and went disconsolately into the 
kitchen. 

“Which do you think is the prettier. Little Boy 
Black,’’ asked Tom, “you or the white baby?’’ 

“I thinks me,’’ he answered frankly, “dat baby’s 
too white.’’ 

The next few weeks were lonely ones for Little 
Boy Black. Enid, of the golden curls, monopolized 
the family and they no longer felt the need of his 
artless prattle. 

Tom passed Little Boy Black, one morning, sit¬ 
ting disconsolately on the front steps with a woe¬ 
begone kitten for companion. 


LITTLE BOY BLACK 


23 


“Your nose is out of joint, eh Boy?” 

Little Boy Black felt of his nose slyly, got up 
and went slowly across the yard with the kitten 
under his arm. 

He was sitting on the steps again that after¬ 
noon, when Tom and May started out to carry 
Enid for a ride. 

“Good-bye, Little Boy Black,” said May, “here 
Enid, tell Boy good-bye.” 

“Ed tiss him good-bye, if he’d ’ash de black oh” 
said Enid. “Won’t it turn off, Auntee?” 

“I don’t know,” laughed May. “Better try it, 
Boy.” 

Little Boy Black smiled a wistful sort of smile, 
as he got up and again went toward his house, 
talking to the kitten as he went. 

“Mi’ May thinks I’s des a common nigger, since 
dat white baby come,” he muttered. 

It was dark when they returned, and May came 
near stumbling over Little Boy Black, who crouched 
on the steps half asleep, his abbreviated skirt too 
short to shield his knees from a brisk wind that 
had risen. 

“Lookee heah,” he cried triumphantly, when 
May spoke to him. He held up his hands that 
looked as if they had been soaked in strong soap¬ 
suds. “Dey’s mightneer white. Mi’ May. Dey’s 


24 


LITTLE BOY BLACK 


mightneer white!” His lips were blue and his teeth 
chattered. 

“What’s the matter, Boy?” cried May, sharp¬ 
ly. “You are as wet as a dish-rag. Run tell Sabry 
I said put dry things on you quickly. I don’t care 
if you are not white, you are my pickaninny, all 
the same” she added consolingly. 

May, thoroughly alarmed, hurried into the kitch¬ 
en to send Sabry to the child. 

“I will finish the supper,” she said, “you run put 
dry clothes on Little Boy Black; he’s dripping 
wet and I am afraid he will be sick.” 

“No, he won’t. Miss May,” said Sabry, deprc- 
catingly, “Kinly aint neber sick, ’cepin’ he do hab dc 
croup some time, en den I des grease dat nigger 
’tell he’s es slippery es er eel.” 

After supper. May went to the little cabin to see 
about the child, and despite Sabry’s assurance that 
he was not very sick, she went to bed ill at ease, 
and slept with the proverbial one eye open, listen¬ 
ing for the call that came about midnight. 

“Get up. May,” her mother whispered, “Little 
Boy Black is sick and wants you.” 

May hurried into her dressing gown and slippers 
and went down. She met Tom coming across the 
yard. 


LITTLE BOY BLACK 


2.5 


“I am going for Hugh,” he said. “I hope the 
little beggar won’t die.” 

May slipped into the room, where the child lay 
struggling for breath. She knelt by the bed and 
took the little hot hand in hers. Sabry crouched 
by the hearth, moaning incessantly: 

“My baby, O my baby! God sabe my baby!” 
Her moan growing to a chant. 

Suddenly the child opened his eyes. 

“Mi’ May,” he whispered hoarsely. 

“Here I am. Little Boy Black. Don’t you know 
Mi’ May?” 

“I can’t ’ash de black off,” he cried. “I can’t ’ash 
de black off, en Mi’ May won’t neber kiss me.” 

“Yes I will,” cried May, taking the child in her 
arms. She stood holding the burning little body 
close, while she shook with sobs. 

After a while the child grew calm, and she laid 
him gently back on the bed. 

The next moment Hugh Haden entered. He 
worked silently and quickly for a time, and then 
he stood up and looked at May, his face grave. 

“I must go to town for medicine,” he said “Will 
you stay?” 

May nodded her assent, and again took her 
place beside the bed. 


26 


LITTLE BOY BLACK 


“Keep his head cool,” Hugh commanded, and 
the next moment he was gone. 

May worked gently, and faithfully, keeping cool 
cloths on the little burning head, and smoothing 
the pillows beneath him. The child lay still, 
breathing in gasps. 

Once he seemed to grow easier and opened his 
eyes. “Mi’ May,” he whispered. May bent over 
him, and his little hand reached out timidly and 
touched her cheek. “Mi’ May, will I be er white 
baby, when I gits ter heben?” 

“Yes,” said May firmly. She was not a theolo¬ 
gian, but she knew that Little Boy Black wanted her 
to say yes, and she said it fearlessly. 

Then he slept again, brokenly, uneasily, the little 
hot hand against her cheek. Sabry still crouched 
by the flickering fire, moaning monotonously: 

“My baby, O God my baby! O God sabe my 
baby!” 

“Mi’ May,” the child again opened his eyes and 
smiled faintly, “Mi’ May, is you gwine ter ma’y dat 
white man?” 

May bent impulsively and took him in her arms, 
but her only answer was a sob. She continued to 
hold him, rocking gently back and forth, crooning 
a lullaby. Suddenly she felt the little form stiffen 
in her arms. 


LITTLE BOY BLACK 


27 


“Mother! she shrieked. For the first time in 
her life she was face to face with death, and ter¬ 
ror seized her. 

The door creaked on its rusty hinges and her 
mother and Hugh entered together. 

“It is all over,” Hugh said softly. 

“You go now, dear,” Mrs. Rawlins said, “we 
will attend to everything.” 

May felt the room going ’round and ’round 
with her and put out her hand to steady herself. 
Suddenly everything grew black and she would 
have fallen had Hugh not put his arm gently 
around her shoulders and led her out into the 
night. 

“Poor little girl,” Hugh said softly. “It’s an aw¬ 
ful thing to see a child die.” 

May shivered, and stood clutching Hugh’s hand, 
while she shook with dry sobs. 

“Hugh,” she said at last brokenly, “Little Boy 
Black wanted to know if he would be a white baby 
when he got to heaven.” 

“I hope you told him yes.” 

“I did,” said May, “and I believe I was right.” 

They had reached the door and Hugh turned to 
go back to Mrs. Rawlins. May’s heart sank. This 
was the first time she had seen him since the day 
she had sent him away, angry and hurt. 


28 


LITTLE BOY BLACK 


“Hugh,” she said softly. 

He turned and stood silently waiting, his face 
grave and set. He was making it hard, but she 
could not let him go again like that. 

“Little Boy Black wanted to know one more 
thing.” Her voice was scarcely more than a whis¬ 
per. 

“What was it, May?” 

“He wanted to know—if—I—was—” she stood 
with her hand on the door knob, poised, ready for 
flight. “If—^I—was ’gwine ter ma’y dat white 
man,” 

Her voice broke, she trembled on the verge of 
hysteria. 

Hugh came a step nearer, the grave mask 
dropped from his face, and a glad light was in his 
eyes. 

“I hope you told him yes.” He held out his 
arms and waited. 

With a little cry she slipped into them, and again 
her only answer was a sob. 


OL’ MA’STER 




OL’ MA’STER 


^“T^OBE, why you reckin 01’ Ma’ster don’ git rid 
o’ dis ol’ po’ Ian’ whut won’ sprout peas en buy 
him forty acres en er mule?” 

Uncle Abner spoke, with an affectionate, though 
gruff, air, as he pulled his plow back from under a 
root that obstructed its passage, to the young negro 
man who was running a cotton planter in the furrow 
behind him. 

“Min’ral, min’ral,” chuckled Tobe, “Don’ you 
know dat 01’ Ma’ster aint gwine ter sell dis Ian’ 
when he see great chunks o’ ma’gnese, i’on en boxitc 
lyin’ er roun’ on top o’ de groun’ ?” 

“Ugh,” grunted Uncle Abner, “I done see dat 
will-o-wis’ lead mo’ dan one man ter de po’ house. 
Ma’s Billy done die po’ es er chu’ch mouse frum dat 
same reason. En you see dem holes all ober Mr. 
Billy Williamson’s fa’m. In dem same holes he 
done bury de mos’ o’ his fambly. Dat is ef dey 
hadn’ been slabin’ ter sabe dat min’ral, dey mought 
be libin’ yit. Dat’s des de way 01’ Ma’ster gwine ter 
do. or Mistis done git ol’ en gray er waitin’ en er 
waitin’ fer dat min’ral ter tu’n into gol’. De boys 
done growed up en lef home, en eben de gu’ls is er 


31 


32 


OL’ MA’STER 


teachin’ school fer ter he’p pay de taxes on dis ol’ 
place, or Ma’ster is des like er chil’ chasin’ er 
rainbo’ fer ter fin’ er pot o’ gol’. But he done 
’bout wore hese’f out er chasin’ dat rainbow. Look 
dar at him now.” 

Tobe obediently raised his head and looked 
across the field to where a man, evidently well ad¬ 
vanced in his sixties, rode a little bay mare slowly 
along the field road. His head was bowed as one 
in deep thought. He had given the mare the reins, 
and she was going at will, stopping here and there 
to bite at. a tempting young shrub that grew by the 
road side, while across the intervening field came 
the plaintive notes of the man, singing in the voice 
of age, one of Jeb Stuart’s camp songs. 

To the negro men, who listened, there was noth¬ 
ing incongruous in the rolicking song and the quaver¬ 
ing voice. Uncle Abner especially knew that the 
song was a sort of vehicle by which the memories 
of camp days came to this man, who had come from 
the war of the sixties with youth and health gone, 
to find his father’s fields devastated and his home 
laid in ruins. But he had retained the land, because 
he believed that the mineral deposits, cropping out 
here and there, were evidences of deep running 
veins and fabulous wealth, and all the strength of 
his middle age had been spent in the nerve-racking 


OL’ MA’STER 


33 


effort of finding the capital with which to finance 
what he believed to be valuable mines. 

“Or Ma’ster done bin singin’ dat song eber since 
I kin ’member,” laughed Tobe, “dat is he bin tryin’ 
fer ter sing hit. De chune goes dis way—” 

Tobe raised his own musical voice and the notes 
of “The Girl I left Behind Me” rose, swelled and 
reached the man across the field, who involuntarily 
straightened in his saddle, waved a friendly greet¬ 
ing to the negro men and cantered on, sitting a bit 
straighter as he rode. 

“Or Ma’ster is a powful good man,” Tobe added 
when his song had died away, as if to apologize for 
his bit of criticism. 

“De bes’ man I eber see,” replied Uncle Abner; 
“dat’s how come I hates ter see him war hese’f out 
chasin’ er rainbo’. Dem orfans whut alius fin’ 
er home at his house gwine ter suffer ef’n he don’ 
watch out.” 

“How many he done raised?” asked Tobe, who 
knew very well how many orphan children had 
found a home under the sheltering roof of William 
Rayford, but for the sheer pleasure of hearing the 
man he loved praised, he encouraged Uncle Abner 
to talk. 

“Ugh, hatter count,” replied Uncle Abner; “may¬ 
be de fin’ers on bof ban’s will sarve: Bar’s de li’l 


34 


OL’ MA’STER 


gal, whose daddy went ter de Wes’ fer de lung 
sickness and didn’t come back. Den dar’s de li’l boy 
he brung frum de sale—” 

Tobe laughed hilariously. 

“Whut you mean, man? You know dey don’ sell 
no babies at no sale.” 

“Dey gibs Ol’ Ma’ster dis one, ’case he mammy 
wus daid, en he daddy wus breakin’ up housekeep- 
in’ en he didn’ hab no mo’ use fer de baby den he 
did fer de stove he wus sellin’. I neber fergit how 
or Mistis look when he come home wid dat li’l 
tow-haided baby on de pommel o’ his saddle, en 
she done raise nine o’ her own.” 

“But Mammy say dar’s alius room in er ’oman’s 
heart fer one mo’ baby,” interposed Tobe, “en she 
done ’gin fer ter keer fer dat li’l ol’ baby o’ mine 
mo’ dan she eber did fer we-alls. I know all er- 
bout dem babies whut Ol’ Ma’ster done took ter his 
house, en I bet ef’n me en Princena en Mammy wus 
ter all die dat he’d take dat li’l ol’ meesly Alex o’ 
mine ter his house. I see him yistidy er ridin’ ’roun’ 
de fa’m wid Alex stickin’ on behin’ like er big black 
beetle.” 

“He’s got er heart big es er bushel bucket,” said 
Uncle Abner. “But—” 

“Did I eber tell you whut he done fer we-alls,” 
interrupted Tobe, “when Daddy died frum de inj’- 


OL’ MA’STER 


35 


ries he got tryin’ fer ter sabe de bosses de night de 
big ba’n bu’n? De very nex day 01’ Ma’ster come 
en brung Mammy er deed ter de fifty acres o’ Ian’ 
whut he alius call de Love lot. He say ’twarnt 
val’ble ’case hit didn’ hab no min’ral on hit.” 

Tobe chuckled. 

“No min’ral nuffen! Mammy done foun’ er gol’ 
mine on dat Ian’; hit makes mo’ cotton dan all de 
res’ o’ de place tergedder. How much money you 
recking Mammy done put in de bank last fall?” 

The question was never answered, for the next 
minute the man of whom they spoke rode up and 
sat on his horse looking dejectedly at the impov¬ 
erished soil. 

“Don’t seem to have any strength left in it, does 
it Abner? Takes three acres to make a bale. When 
I was a boy—” he paused letting his tired dreamy 
eyes roam over the newly plowed ground. 

The next moment he slipped agilely from his lit¬ 
tle mare, picked up a rock that had been turned up 
by the plow and brushed the dirt from it. 

“Look at that, Abner,” he cried excitedly, “look 
at it. Iron, I tell you; pure iron. It weighs a ton.” 

His long, thin hand, gnarled by years of hard 
labor, shook as he held the rock out for inspection. 

“Dat’s des like de ones dat man Hackett say aint 
wuth wukin’ up, Ma’s William. Dat man say—” 


36 


OL’ MA’STER 


“That man’s a damn scoundrel,” the man 
answered angrily, “he merely wants it himself. He 
is going to force me to sell so that he can gobble 
it up. I know his game.” 

Continuing to mutter angrily to himself, he 
mounted his horse and rode away, leaving Abner 
looking after him sadly. 

“Dat’s des de way,” he said, “dem pesky li’l ol’ 
rocks des runnin’ him crazy. You see how he look, 
Tobe. Sumpen gone wrong wid 01’ Ma’ster, when 
he eye done los’ hit’s twinkle. Whut he mean ’bout 
dat man Hackett forcin’ him ter sell?” 

“I don’ know,” answered Tobe seriously; “I did 
heah Mr. Dorsey say dat dey gwine ter sue 01’ 
Ma’ster, but I don’ un’erstan’.” 

Uncle Abner shook his head thoughtfully and fell 
into a silence, while Tobe, taking his cue from the 
older man, dropped behind and beguiled himself 
with singing, although his voice had lost some of its 
accustomed cheerfulness. 

“I sho’ would hate ter see 01’ Ma’ster sol’ out,” 
Uncle Abner remarked, as he mounted his mule at 
the end of the day’s work, as if the conversation en¬ 
gaged in hours before had not been interrupted; 
“hit would des ’bout be de las’ o’ him sho’. ” 

Tobe did not answer but rode silently beside the 
older man, his brow puckered by lines of puzzled 


OL’ MA’STER 


37 


thought. Uncle Abner’s words were troubling him. 
He carried them home with him, and began to talk 
about the matter to his mother. 

“Mammy,” he said as they sat over the evening 
meal, “Unc’ Abner say dey gwine ter sell 01’ 
Ma’ster out.” 

“Huh!” The old woman straightened in her 
chair and glared across the table at her son, as if 
he were the offender. “Gwine ter sell 01’ Ma’ster 
out, is dey? Not ef Mandy kin he’p hit, en she 
b’lebe she kin.” 

“How, Mammy, how?” asked Tobe eagerly. 

“You des wait.” 

Mandy sat turning her coffee cup, which she had 
reversed in its saucer. 

“You des wait en I’ll show you whut dese coffee 
groun’s has ter say.” 

Tobe watched her intently as she held the cup 
aloft and studied the sediment that adhered to the 
cup. 

“Dar, I see a youngish white man wid red hair, 
er slippin’ up behin’ er ol’ white man—” 

“Dat’s or Ma’ster,” interrupted Tobe, but Man¬ 
dy ignored him. 

“Den dar’s a black ’oman en er pile er money.” 
She shook the cup again and held it up. 

“I thought so,” she exulted. “Dat pile er money 


38 


OL’ MA’STER 


en de black ’oman done got on de same side er de 
line. Dat white man’s cornin’ towards de black 
’oman.” 

She shook the cup again. 

“Now, dat white man done gone en dar aint no- 
budy but de black ’oman, de pile er money—” 

“Whut dat, whar de pile er money, Mammy?” 
questioned Tobe. 

“Whut you reckin?” she answered enigmatically. 
“But dem clouds whut’s been er bangin’ low ’roun’ 
heah is done lif’ed. Why you kin mos’ see de sun¬ 
shine.” 

She held the cup toward Tobe, but he shook his 
head. 

“I hope you knows. Mammy, but I don’ see no 
sunshine.” • 

He hadn’t much confidence in his mother’s abil¬ 
ity to read the future, but her words of encourage¬ 
ment had acted on his mercurial spirits and they 
went up with a bound. 

The next morning, as he rode across the dewey 
pasture, the world seemed entirely too good for any¬ 
thing wrong to happen to the man he had always 
called “Or Ma’ster”, although it was many years 
after the emancipation of the slaves. Tobe sang as 
he rode and thought of the many kindnesses he had 
received at the hands of William Rayford. 


OL’ MA’STER 


39 


“He’s kinder ter de niggers on his fa’m dan mos’ 
men is ter dey own famblies,” Tobe mused as he 
rode. “En I bet Mammy is ’bout right. God aint 
gwine ter let nuffen happen ter es good er man es 
dat.” 

Tobe had never heard of Socrates, but his phi¬ 
losophy was very much like that of the Sage of 
Athens, when he said: “I am persuaded that no harm 
can come to a good man, living or dead.” And when 
he reached Uncle Abner, who was bending low over 
the work of setting his plow he began expounding 
this doctrine. 

“Unc’ Abner, I don’ b’liebe nothin’ wrong gwine 
ter happen ter es good er man es 01’ Ma’ster. 
Sumpen gwine ter—” 

“Dar you go,” snapped Uncle Abner, “er chasin’ 
rainbo’s des lak’ Ol’ Ma’ster hese’f. Guess you 
t’ink dat ore gwine ter twis’ hitse’f outen de groun’, 
make hitse’f inter i’on, en make ernuf money fer 
ter sabe dis Ian’ when hit done bin leveled on. I 
met dat ba’liff dis mawnin’ er grinnin’ like er possum. 
I wish I could er kilt him.” After this statement 
Abner went back to beating on his plow, with some 
of the force he would like to have spent on the head 
of the bailiff. 

“Dat sholy is er onnery white man,” he muttered 
as he drove the bolt into place. “ ‘I done leveled on 


40 


OL’ ]VIA’STER 


dis Ian’, ’ he said es I met him; I aint said nuffen yit. 
1 aint ready fer te ’vite people ter mer own fun- 
’ral.” 

“I gwine ter de house,” said Tobe as he turned 
his horse’s head toward home, and rode back over 
the meadow to where Mandy bent over the wash 
tub. 

“Better git er move on whuteber it wus you see in 
dem coffee groun’s las’ night. Mammy. Dey done 
leveled on Ol’ Ma’ster’s Ian’. ” 

“Whut dat?” 

Mandy stood up and wiped her hands on her 
apron. 

“Done leveled on de whole place, Ian’ , stocks, 
wagins, buggies, cows, ebryt’ing.” 

Tobe did nothing by halves. When he told a 
tale he made it worth listening to. 

“Dey ’eluded 01’ Mistis’ house’old en kitchen 
furnitu’, ” he continued. 

Mandy had untied her apron and was adjusting 
the bandana that encircled her head. 

“Don’ you worry, Tobe,” she admonished; “you 
des go back ter de fiel’. I’m gwine ter see whut all 
dis ’sturbance am erbout.” 

Tobe obeyed his mother’s direction and went back 
to the field, but he could not cease his worry. His 


OL’ MA’STER 


41 


fertile imagination pictured all sorts of dire disas¬ 
ters coming to the man he worshipped. 

“Ef Mr. Marvin knowed his daddy wus in tr’uble, 

I boun’ he’d come home fas’ as he could git heah. 
But dat’s des like Ol’ Ma’ster; he won’t let on dat 
he need no he’p. Hit’s too late ter holloa when de 
debil got yo’, er de ba’liff either.” 

Tobe continued to talk to himself, and to Uncle 
Abner, when he could get the older man to break 
the sullen silence into which he had fallen, after 
his passionate abuse of the bailiff. 

All the long evening he continued his rambling 
talk, his mind full of all sorts of forebodings. But 
still he was unprepared for the tragic countenance of 
his master, when he came face to face with him in 
the barn lot, after the day’s work was done. 

William Rayford’s thin, eager face was gray, his 
eyes blood-shot and blazing with passion. He 
trembled as he carried the basket of corn to the 
stable for his little mare, that he always fed with 
his own hands. 

‘‘Let me do dat, O’l Ma’ster,” said Tobe gently, 
taking the basket from his hand. 

Mr. Rayford almost dropped the basket from the 
shock of being brought so suddenly back from his 
brooding thoughts. He relinquished the basket 


42 


OL’ MA’STER 


without a word or a smile, and followed Tobe to 
the stable door. 

“It’s that damn Hackett,” he muttered as Tobe 
came out of the stable, speaking to the negro boy as 
one who talks to himself only to ease the burning 
anger that scorched his brain. 

“He’s fuller of lies than Satan himself. He kept 
telling me that there was mineral; that he would get 
a buyer. Now when the mortgage is due, he says 
that the mineral is no account; that he has made the 
test and that it does not pan out. He’s a damn 
liar—I know he’s a liar. I wish I could kill him,” 
he raved. 

With a shiver Tobe stepped backward out of the 
line of his master’s vision. The look in the wild 
eyes frightened him. This was a man he had never 
seen. The kind, gentle, whimsical master was gone 
and a raving maniac stood before him. Tobe was 
torn between the desire to stay and lend his master 
the sympathy of his mere presence and the negro’s 
natural fear of the mentally unbalanced. His love 
conquered and he stood, waiting patiently for the 
passion to spend itself. 

After a few moments he was rewarded by hearing 
his master say in his usual voice: 

“Forget that, Tobe. I was a fool, but I am all 
broken up. I hate to see what I have worked so 


OL’ jVIA’STER 


43 


hard to save, taken from me by a dirty trickster. [ 
could save it yet, if I had time, but they have 
made the levy. I am ruined, completely and utterly 
ruined.” His voice rose, threatening again to break 
into angry ravings. 

“How much would hit take ter pay dat mor’- 
gage?” Tobe asked, more from a desire to bring his 
master back to realities than for information. 

“I could stave it off with a thousand—that is un¬ 
til I could turn a trick—but it might as well be ten 
thousand. I am ruined, Tobe, and could not raise 
enough to buy a sheep—not with Hackett giving the 
lie to every evidence of mineral on the place. No 
one believes in it.” 

“I does, Ma’s William. I b’liebes in hit ernuf fer 
ter sabe hit, too. Mandy gwine ter sabe yo’ min’ral, 
or Ma’ster.” 

Mandy had come softly through the waning light, 
and stood at his elbow before she had been observed. 

Mr. Rayford turned toward her, a slight smile 
breaking through the gloom that clothed his face. 
Mandy had always been a favorite, and his kindly 
heart was touched by her childish promise, futile 
though he thought it to be. 

“I wish you might, Mandy,” he answered “then, 
we could grow old in comfort, I and you and 


44 


OL’ MA’STER 


Miss Sallie. We have about earned our day’s rest, 
hut—” 

His voice broke. 

“Look heah, Ma’s William! ” 

Mandy had untied the knot in the corner of her 
gingham apron and was holding toward him a huge 
paper-wrapped parcel. 

“See ef hit’s all heah, Ma’s William. Dat man 
in de bank, he count hit twice en he say ’twus 
ernuf—” 

“What’s that?” Mr. Rayford held a hand for the 
package. 

“Take hit,” said Mandy, wearily,” I’s mos’ ti’ed 
ter deaf. I done walk ter Rome en back since din¬ 
ner, en Ma’s John Runnels in dat big bank, he say 
’twus ernuf fer ter pay dat mor’gage.” 

Mandy dropped upon the watering trough and 
sat watching understanding break into the tired brain 
of her master. 

“Mammy say she gwine ter sabe dat Ian’. ” Tobc 
was again hilarious. His spirits had shot up at the 
sight of the bills. 

“Count hit, or Ma’ster, en see ef Mammy sho’ 
nuf got ernuf ter pay dat rhor’gage. Glory be, I 
b’lebe she got er million dollars in dat bundle.” 

Mr. Rayford stood half dazed, hesitating to open 
the package and thus destroy the mirage that had 


OL’ MA’STER 


15 


been called into existence by the improbable words 
of the negro woman. 

Tobe danced, first on one foot and then the other, 
while Mandy sat perfectly still, her brooding eyes 
on the face of her master. 

At last, he began to count the money, slowly at 
first, then more eagerly, then feverishly: 

“One hundred, two hundred, three hundred— 
Unable to go ahead, he thrust the package into 
Tobe’s hands. “There, boy, count that damn mon¬ 
ey. I believe I am crazy.” 

“This can’t be true,” he kept muttering, rubbing 
his hand across his eyes; “this can’t be true, Man¬ 
dy, where—in the name of God, where did you get 
that money?” 

“Ma’s William,” she began slowly, “does you 
’member whut de Bible say erbout bread cas’ upon 
de waters? Well, dat’s de harves’ o’ de bread you 
cas’ upon de waters, when Sam die, en you give we- 
alls dat Ian’. You said hit didn’t hah no min’ral on 
hit, but dat hit would make cotton, en hit sho’ did. 
Hit make sumpen else, too. Las’ yeah, dat sneakin’ 
white man, Hackett, comes ter we-alls’ house en say 
he wan’er make er tes’ fer ter see ef de vein o’ min’¬ 
ral he fin’ on yo’ Ian’ run dat fur. When I let him 
make de tes’ he des went wil’ fer dat Ian.’ He offer 
me dis en he offer me dat, but somehow I don’ trus’ 


46 


OV MA’STER 


dat man. By en by, he kep’ on ’twell I went ter see 
Ma’s John Runnels, in de big bank in Rome, ’case I 
nus’ Ma’s John, when he wus er baby. En he ’low, 
‘Mandy, you des hoi’ onter dat Ian’ en I’ll see ’bout 
hit fer you.’ Shortly atter dat, he sont er man 
down heah fer ter make de tes’, en he ’low dat i’on 
ore run clear Inter de bowels o’ de e’rth, en he boun’ 
you got er hundred acres des like hit.” 

“I aint neber sed nuffen ’bout hit twell terday, 
’case I don’ know nuffen ’bout er ore mine, en I does 
know ’bout a cotton patch, en dat cotton patch wus 
hard ter beat. But when Tobe come home en tol’ 
me dey done leveled on yo’ Ian’, I puts my foot In de 
road en I goes ter Rome. En, now’ I don’ sol’ Ma’s 
John de mln’ral Intrus’ In my Ian fer two thousand 
dollars en whut he call er roy’lty. En I brung you 
de money, Ma’s William, ’case hits yo’s enyway.” 

“No, Mandy, no! ” 

Mr. Rayford had dropped upon his knees where 
he stood, and his thin bent shoulders shook with the 
dry hard sobs of a man. 

“I am saved,” he sobbed, brokenly, falteringly, as 
if his brain feared to take hold of the fact. “You 
have saved me from ruin, Mandy, and now Miss 
Sallie and I can grow old in peace. The children— 
our children, Mandy, and your children, can be 
happy, and the little—” 


OL’ MA’STER 


47 


“Yas, sar,” crooned Mandy, “I knows w^hut you 
gwine ter say, Ma’s William. You gwine ter say dat 
all de li’l orfens kin hab er home.” 

“Le’s build er orfen’s home, 01’ Ma’ster,” inter¬ 
rupted Tobe, “en hab quarters in de back fer de li’l 
black ones.” 

“Good,” said Mr. Rayford, who was beginning 
to get his poise again. “A good suggestion, Tobe. 
But now I must go tell Miss Sallie that Mandy has 
saved the day.” 

“Come on. Mammy,” said Tobe, “I tol’ you dat 
nuffen bad could happen ter es good er man es 01’ 
Ma’ster. Come, le’s go eat supper, en see ef dem 
coffee groun’s is got eny mo’ tales ter tell like dat 



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LOVE AND POLITICS 




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1 





LOVE AND POLITICS 


TT was a pleasant October evening In the year of 
^ our Lord 1880 . The sun had dropped behind the 
highest peak of Turkey Mountain, and the twilight 
of the short autumn day w^as rapidly covering the 
little valley with a blanket of shadows. 

A tall, deep-chested negro boy came from the 
spacious barn, situated near the center of the Mark¬ 
ham plantation, and with a sedate step went toward 
the little cabin in the back yard of the Markham 
home. 

Alex walked like a man in deep thought, his head 
bowed and his hands clasped at his back, a posture 
he had recently acquired from a leader of his race, 
at whose feet he had been sitting, until his mind re¬ 
sembled nothing so much as a mystic maze. Every¬ 
where he turned he walked into a familiar shape, a 
deep-seated sense of gratitude, an Inherent loyalty, 
or the plain teachings of his old mother, who had 
recently departed this life. 

“You stick ter yo’ white folks, Alex,” she had 
said, “en dey will stick ter you. You is des er ignut 
nigger boy, en when you wants ter know whut is 
right, you ax 01’ Ma’ster er Mr. Rob.” 

Alex had kept this advice pretty well, up to this 


51 


52 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


time, but a new and novel situation had arisen. He 
liad joined the “Emancipated Sons of Ham,” and 
night after night, he had been sitting at the feet of 
a leader, who told him how weak and pusillanimous 
was the man, white or black, who “sold his birtE 
right for a mess of pottage.” 

In 1880, the White Primary had never been 
thought of in the State of Georgia, and the mem¬ 
bers of Alex’s race were wearing the vesture of cit¬ 
izenship with a sense of overwhelming dignity. 

Now, as Alex walked slowly toward his cabin he 
rolled the high-sounding phrases of the political 
leader of his race over and over in his mind until 
his head ached. But all that he was able to make 
of them was that, if he voted like Mr. Rob Mark¬ 
ham wanted him to, he would be “selling his birth¬ 
right for a mess of pottage;” but if he went against 
Mr. Rob and with Ranse Jordan, the leader, to 
whom he had been listening, that he would be a 
“forth-right up-standing citizen.” Just why it took 
going against the best friend he ever had, to be an 
“up-right” citizen Alex could not see. But Ranse 
Jordan had said so, and Ranse could have nothing 
in his mind but the desire to educate and uplift his 
race. So Alex’s poor over-worked brain mulled 
over the problem he had to face. 

He was no nearer a solution, when he reached 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


53 


the little cabin, where, since his mother’s death, he 
was living with his two younger brothers. Simon, 
the youngest of the three, dwarfish, and regarded as 
a half-wit, was busy preparing the evening meal as 
Alex entered. He did not look up from his work, 
but went on talking monotonously to himself, as 
his brother stood in the doorway looking silently 
out upon the growing twilight. 

“Whut you mouthin’ ’bout, nigger?” Alex asked, 
at last, as he turned toward Simon and stood watch¬ 
ing him as he deftly turned the “hot-cakes” he was 
cooking for supper. 

“Nuffen,” grumbled Simon, “ ’cep’ I wus des sayin’ 
dat ev’rything dat go wrong on dis place I gits 
blamed fer hit. Now you en Jerry is bof fine fel¬ 
lers wid OP Ma’ster, but Simon is des er fool, en he 
do dis en he do dat. I aint neber got no res’ since 
I wus big ernuf ter squeeze baby chickuns ter def.” 

“Whut has Simon done now?” laughed Alex, 
“fergit ernuder bucket whut he done been sont 
’spressly fer ter git?” 

“Naw,” snapped Simon. He was rather irrita¬ 
ble over any reference to the fact that he had been 
heard deliberately planning to “fergit dat bucket”, 
a few weeks before. “Naw, I aint fergit nuffen, but 
one o’ Miss Markham’s dominickers done been 



—'‘dafs er priv’lege dat’s done bin deVgated ter we-alls bg 
de gov’mint, ’s^nte er race, color, er prevns condition o’ serbi- 



















LOVE AND POLITICS 


55 


kilt—guess Beecher stomp on ’im—en she low she 
boun’ Simon kilt ’im.” 

He turned back to the stove and gave his atten¬ 
tion to the supper he was preparing, but continued 
to mutter to himself, completely ignoring his broth¬ 
er, who stood watching him with a good-natured 
smile on his face. 

“I bet you right now, ef God A’mighty wus ter 
die,” continued Simon, “dat somebudy would want 
ter blame Simon.” 

“You sho’ is er crazy nigger,” laughed Alex, 
turning to the door as Jerry, the other brother, en¬ 
tered. 

“I bet you don’t know who’s up ter de big house,” 
said Jerry, showing his teeth in a broad grin. 

“Mr. Rob,” answered the two in chorus. 

“Whut did he say, Jerry?” continued Alex. 

“He say it wus ’bout ’lection time.” Jerry’s grin 
broadened. “Dat boy sho is er sight. He alius 
talkin’ ’bout ’lections.” 

“Co’s’, he is,” interrupted Alex, speaking as one 
of superior knowledge, “co’s’ he is, a man’s alius 
thinkin’ ’bout polertics ef he’s got eny sense.” 

“He mought he thinkin’ ’bout love,’ ” said Simon 
with a sly grin. I see you hoi’ o’ some one’s han’, 
Sunday.” 

The remark was ignored, as it deserved to he by 


56 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


a man who had his mind on such serious things as 
politics and elections. 

“Mr. Rob is making speeches ober de deestrict 
fer Judge Breen,” Alex remarked, addressing him¬ 
self to Jerry. 

“I boun’ Mr. Rob could make er speech whut ’d 
make er man vote fer de Debil ef he wus runnin’ 
fer office.” surmised Jerry. 

“ ’Twouldn’t me!” Alex was indignant. “Ef you 
gwine ter vote, you got ter know sumpen ’bout pol- 
crtics. You can’t let yo’se’f be led ’round like sheep.” 

“I’d vote fer enybudy whut Mr. Rob want me 
to,” said Simon stolidly; “aint nobudy eber been es 
good ter me es Mr. Rob.” 

“Uh huh,” said Alex, throwing out his broad 
chest and preening himself on his superior mental 
stamina. ‘Dat’s des de tr’uble wid we-alls, now, so 
many niggers let de’se’ves be led ’round by dc 
white folks. Now, I aint got nuffen ’gin de white 
folks, speshly dese white folks out heah. Miss 
Markham en de whole fambly been moughty good 
ter we-alls, eber since M^ammy move heah, en when 
folks is good ter me I wants ter ’taliate by bein’ 
good ter dem. But, when it comes ter votin’, dat’s 
diffunt. Dat’s er pertacklar sort o’ thing—dat’s er 
priv’lege dat’s done been del’gated ter we-alls by 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


57 


de gover’mint, ’spite er race, color er prevus con¬ 
dition o’ serbitude.” 

Simon suddenly emitted a loud guftaw. 

“You sho’ly does know how hit’s done, Alex. You 
been lamin’ moughty fas’ ober at dem meetin’s in 
Pine-Pitch. You got mos’ es meny wuds on de end 
o’ yo’ tongue right now es ole man Ranse Jordan.” 

Alex grinned sheepishly. He had been quoting 
liberally from the political leader, but that was a 
small matter to his way of thinking. 

“How’s a man gwine ter talk ’cepin’ he use dc 
same wuds whut ’nuther man done used?” he 
fenced. “I done been thinkin’ dem same things all 
mer life, des aint neber happen ter ’spress merself in 
dem same wuds, tell I heah Brur Jordan say ’em.” 

And in that he did not differ greatly from many 
wiser men than he. 

“It’s moughty easy ter say er thing, atter it done 
been said,” muttered Simon. “Now, dar’s Mr. 
Rob, you reckin whar he heah all dem wuds he 
uses in dem speeches o’ his’n? Why, he aint neber 
heah ’em. He des make ’em up in his haid es he 
go ’long. Dar aint no books in de worl’ got all 
dem wuds in ’em. I done heah him speak ober ter 
Lake Creek en I bet he say mo’ dan er million.” 

“Dat nigger done ’plum ’stracted,” said Alex, 
turning to Jerry. “Let’s go down ter de bawn en 


58 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


see whut Mr. Rob’s drivin’ en see whut he got 
in de back o’ dat buggy.” 

They knew, from experience, that young Rob 
Markham out campaigning did usually carry some¬ 
thing in the back of his buggy. Not to buy votes 
with. Perish the thought! Such things were not 
done in Georgia politics, but the voters of the 
country still drank and still smoked, and a good 
brand of either whiskey or tobacco was thought to 
be effective in laying a man’s mind open to reason. 
And young Markham was supposed to carry a good 
brand of that, also. 

After supper was over, Rob went down to the 
little cabin, where the Johnson negroes, who worked 
his father’s farm, lived. 

“How are you, boys?” he asked as he stepped 
into the little cabin, smiling his magnetic smile, 
which was proving to be such an asset in the cam¬ 
paign. 

“Come right in, Mr. Rob.” Alex was always 
spokesman for the family. “Simon, han’ Mr. Rob 
dat cheer.” 

Rob took the proffered chair, and sat looking 
about the bare little cabin. 

“I miss Aunt Sallie something awful,” he said, at 
last “why don’t you get married, Alex? Where is 
that chocolate colored girl I saw you with last 
summer?” 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


59 


Alex showed his teeth in a pleasant grin. “Dat’s 
’bout de bestest lookin nigger gal in dat town, Mr. 
Rob, but I ’spec’ she gwine ter want er yaller nigger 
whut wears biled shuts.” 

“Not if she is as sensible as she looks,” laughed 
Rob. “Tell me where she works, Alex, and I will 
speak a good word for you.” 

“She’s de house girl at Judge Breen’s.” 

“Oh!” said Rob, and fell to thinking. 

“Dem sho’ is fine shoes you got on, Mr. Rob,” 
said Simon calculatingly, eyeing the shoes Rob had 
on. “I ’spec’ you’ll be gittin’ you some mo’ soon.” 

Rob laughed. “I guess I will have to throw these 
away when I do. You do not happen to know any 
one who wears a number seven, do you Simon?” 

“You sho’ly is er comical young man, Mr. Rob, 
you know I done been wearin’ yo’ ole clo’s’ eber 
since I been bawn. Mammy uster say she aint buy 
me nuffen ’case I could weah yo’s.” 

“All right, Simon,” Rob, smiled as he got up to 
leave, “I will remember about the shoes, and I 
wouldn’t be surprised if I happen to find some more 
things that you might use.” 

He took three cigars from his pocket and handed 
one to each of the boys. 

“These will make you sleep well,” he said, as 
he stepped out Into the moon-lit night. 


6o 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


“Dat’s whut I calls er fus’ class gen’man,” said 
Simon, puffing away on his cigar, with the air of a 
connoisseur. “Dis sho’ly am er fine segar. He is 
alius givin’ we-alls sumpen en not axin’ fer a thing.” 

“I don’t know,” mused Alex, his face wrinkled 
up in an effort to think. His mind was full of 
vague workings. Words of Ranse Jordan came 
back into his mind, confusing him: “Dem white 
folks think dat niggers kin be bought wid er segar, 
er er dime; dat’s des whut dey thinks o’ we-alls. Dey 
done driv us es long es dey kin, en now dey tryin’ 
fer ter lead us, but it ’mounts ter de same thing; 
dey gits us whar dey wants us.” 

Alex felt disloyal to Rob and to Mr. Markham, 
when he thought of Ranse Jordan’s words. He 
tried to put them out of his mind and to enjoy his 
really excellent cigar, but they kept coming back. 
He would have been happy to have followed his 
natural bent and gone with Mr. Rob, but when “de 
sacred franchise done been delergated ter er man” 
that makes the duty very impressive. He continued 
to smoke his cigar, but he did not get as much enjoy¬ 
ment out of it as either Jerry or Simon, who admit¬ 
tedly would have voted for the devil if Mr. Rob had 
asked them. Alex, however, had been awakened to 
the “high duty of a citizen.” Again, he thought in 
the words of Ranse Jordan. 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


6 i 


As Alex continued to smoke, the sacred duty of 
a citizen grew more and more hazy in his mind, and 
finally faded altogether, and, notwithstanding he 
had said a man was always thinking about politics, 
his mind was filled with visions of the chocolate-col¬ 
ored girl, who was house girl at Judge Breen’s. 

Ten days later the election came, and the three 
Johnson boys drove into town early. Simon, re¬ 
splendent in Rob’s old clothes; Jerry, drunk on the 
general excitement, but Alex, with his superior dig¬ 
nity, went with a serious face. He was soon led 
away by Ranse Jordan and put in charge of fifty 
negroes, whom Jordan had been entertaining all 
night, in the hall owned by the colored Odd Fellows. 

“Keep them in heah, Alex,” he had admonished 
“en don’t you let a soul up heah. I wants ter 
march dese boys ter de polls in er body. We gwine 
ter show dat Breen crowd sumpen fo’ dis day am 
ober.” 

Alex did not have any trouble in keeping them. 
They were all either too drunk or too sleepy to 
want to go away. Poor Alex, however, had a lone¬ 
some morning of it. There were some cigars left 
on the table, and he smoked one of these while he 
did some hard thinking—if the pitiful workings of 
his mind could be called thought. He felt keenly 
the indignity these drunken fellows were casting on 


62 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


the cause. Jordan had been shrewd enough to get 
hold of Alex, by appealing to his racial pride, and 
the inherent honesty of the poor negro boy. He 
had wrapped him about his very crooked and very 
dirty political finger, and the result was pitiful. Alex 
believed with a faith, hitherto unshaken, that Jor¬ 
dan was imbued by a high and holy principle. To 
him politics was a cause second only to his religion, 
and he had the racial bent toward piety. 

But, now, as he stood looking at the fifty negroes 
lying in dirty heaps about the room, sleeping off 
the night’s debauch, he began to doubt Jordan; 
he began to feel that mental nausea common to us 
all, when we find that the god we have been wor¬ 
shipping is made of a peculiarly dirty brand of mud. 

He pulled himself together and went to the win¬ 
dow, and stood looking down upon the crowded 
street. He wished himself out of this dirty room; 
out in the open air; free to go hunt up the chocolate- 
colored girl of his dreams. The trend of his 
thought was suddenly broken by the sight of Rob 
Markham and his brother Simon, walking up the 
street in earnest conversation. He stepped quickly 
back out of sight and watched them. He wished he 
could hear what they were saying. He would have 
been seriously disturbed, however, had he known 
that he was the subject under discussion. 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


63 


“Where are Alex and Jerry?” Rob was inquiring. 

“Jerry, he hangin’ ’round de street enjoyin’ it like 
it wus er circus,” Simon answered, “but dat Ranse 
Jordan done got hoi’ o’ Alex. Dey got er hund’ed 
niggers up dar.” He pointed to the hall opposite. 
“Dey don’t want nobody ter git er chance at ’em 
tell hit’s time ter vote.” 

“How on earth did that crowd get Alex?” asked 
Rob. “He belongs to us by rights, and I just hate 
to see Alex made a fool of.” 

“Ugh!” grunted Simon, in disgust. “Alex’s des 
got ernuf sense ter make er fool outen him. Dat’s 
des de way a li’l sense ’feet er nigger. I des er plain 
fool nigger, en I knows hit. Alex he got er right 
smart mo’ sense dan I is, but it des make er fool 
outen him atter all. He done gone en let dat black 
Ranse Jordan git hoi’ o’ him, en make him b’lebe dat 
ef he des won’t go wid you, dat he will be provin’ 
dat he got too much sense ter be led by de white 
folks. En Alex, he aint got ernuf sense ter see dat 
he is bein’ led by de white man whut is leadin’ 
Jordan.” 

Rob laughed. He was surprised at the astuteness 
with wTich Simon had grasped the situation. 

“I wish I knew how to get hold of Alex,” he 
said, speaking more to himself than to Simon. 

Suddenly Simon began to laugh, loudly, bolster- 


64 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


ously, and Rob turned away in disgust. Simon’s fit 
of sanity was over, he thought. He was like the 
others in regarding Simon as a half-wit. After that 
day, however, when any one spoke of the vagaries 
of the negro boy, he insisted that they were simply 
the eccentricities of genius. 

“Wait, Mr. Rob,’’ said Simon, suddenly grow¬ 
ing serious. “I boun’ I know how you kin make dat 
nigger lis’n ter reason. Ef we could git hoi’ o’ dat 
yaller gal ober ter Judge Breen’s. Sampson aint 
de onliest man whut done been drug ’round by the 
hair o’ de haid.’’ 

“You just wait here for me, Simon,’’ said Rob, 
abruptly. And he went hot-footed in search of the 
dusky Delilah. 

It was not so much for the single vote that he 
was fighting, but he did not want any one “poaching 
on his preserves’’, as he expressed it to Clare Breen, 
who listened with laughing eyes to the story of how 
they were going after Alex. 

Clare lent herself, as he knew she would, earnest¬ 
ly to the project. It took only a few minutes to per¬ 
suade the “yaller gal’’, otherwise called Veronica, 
to join them. 

“I gwine ter teach dat nigger ter run ’round wid 
de riff-raff, en de po’ white trash,’’ she muttered, as 
she sat down and wrote Alex, with many flourishes. 


LOVE AND POLITICS 65 

to meet her at the Methodist Church corner in half 
an hour. 

Rob carried the note back to Simon to be deliv¬ 
ered, while Clare made Veronica resplendent in a 
new silk dress and red hair-ribbons. 

“How cum you knowed I wus heah, nigger?” 
asked Alex suspiciously, as he answered Simon’s 
knock at the door. 

“Mr. Jordan ’lowed I’d find you heah,” answered 
Simon simply. “I bin huntin’ you ter gib you dis 
note whut Miss Veronica done sont you.” 

Alex’s heart lost a beat as he took the pink-tinted 
and delicately-perfumed note in his hand. He 
spelled his way laboriously through it. Then, he 
looked around at the still sleeping derelicts that cov¬ 
ered the floor. 

“Simon, can’t you keep dis do’ locked en not let 
er soul up heah?” 

“Nobudy?” queried Simon. 

“Nobudy lessen Brer Jordan come, en den you 
tell him dat a lady sont fer me, en I wus bleeged 
ter go er li’l while. Now, you be sho’ ter tell ’im 
dat hit wus er lady. Do you heah?” 

“I sho’ will,” agreed Simon. 

Alex hurried down the steps and across the street 
to where his lady-love was waiting for him. 

“It’s moughty kind o’ you ter hunt me up. Miss 


66 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


Veronica.” Alex took off his hat and bowed low. 
“I ’siders myse’f highly honered dat you con’er- 
s'ends ter hunt me up. Is you got enything ’spress- 
ly fer ter say ter me, Miss Veronica?” 

“I sho’ is,” bridled Veronica. “I don’t call gen’- 
men’s erway fum dey ’portant ’fairs fer ter ’scuss 
de wedder. I sho* is got sumpen ’spressly ter say ter 
you. I hunted you up ter tell you dat I aint gwine 
ter hab no nigger, whut’s keepin’ comp’ny wid me, er 
runnin’ ’round wid de riff-raff, en de po’ white 
trash.” 

Alex’s lips grew ashy gray. 

“Whut dat crazy Simon been tellin’ you?” he 
asked, angrily, twisting his hat in his hands. 

“Simon aint tol’ me nuffen,” she replied, “but 
I knows you bin runnin’ wid de wrong crowd, cn 
you’s got ter quit hit ef you ’sociates wid me. How 
cum you can’t stick ter yo’ own white folks, Mr. 
Rob Markham? He’s er moughty nice young man, 
en me en Miss Clare laks him mos’ better den eny 
beau she got. En dat’s how cum I let you pay me 
yo’ ’spects. Mr. Rob told Miss Clare dat you 
wus ’bout de bes’ nigger in de county. En now you 
gwine ter go back on Mr. Rob en vote fer dat riff¬ 
raff. Dat’s des ’zactly whut dat man is whut’s run¬ 
nin’ ’gainst Judge Breen.” 

“But you don’t know nuffen ’bout polertics, 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


67 


Honey,” Alex argued. “You aint got no caus’ fer 
ter be trublin’ yo’ purty bald ’bout sich things. You 
can’t vote.” 

“No, I can’t,” snapped Veronica, “but I kin see 
dat you vote right, en dat ’mounts ter ’bout de same 
thing.” 

“But, Honey—” 

“But yo’ haid ’ginst er rock wall,” rasped Vero¬ 
nica. “Guess it wouldn’t hu’t it,” she added, under 
her breath. 

“But I des got ter vote dat way, now. Honey; I 
des got ter.” 

“Seein’ es how we can’t agree, Mr. Johnsin’, I 
guess I better be goin’. ” She made a move as if to 
leave. 

“Don’t go, Veronica,” he begged, “Please don’t 
go. I’ll—I’ll—” 

“ Ob co’s’, you will,” she cooed, edging up close 
to him and slipping her hand in his, that lay on the 
stone steps. “I knowed you loved me too well ter 
let er li’l thing lak dat ’stu’b our peace.” 

She adroitly lifted her umbrella and nestled a 
moment close against his shoulder behind it. 

“I gwine ter ’spec you Sunday, Honey, sho’. ” 

Alex got up and walked thoughtfully back to the 
hall, where the fifty negroes were waking up and 
growing restless. He went with his shoulders bent 


68 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


and his eyes troubled, but his head was in a whirl 
and his heart beat like a trip-hammer. About his 
beclogged senses hung the heavy perfume of Hud- 
nutt’s Violets. 

“Dat gal sho’ly do tangle herse’f monstrously 
close ’bout a man’s h’art,” he said as he climbed the 
steps. 

“Whar Jordan?” asked a big heavy-set negro as 
Alex entered. 

“Gone down ter de polls. Let’s go, now boys.” 

Like so many sheep they allowed themselves to be 
formed into line and led down. 

At the foot of the steps, Alex was startled to 
see Veronica, standing not fifty feet away. She had 
thought it wise not to lose sight of her new recruit. 

She gave no sign, but simply turned, and keeping 
well in front, led the way toward the court house. 

It was a picturesque sight—one far ahead of the 
times in Georgia—to see fifty men led to the polls 
by a woman. Few, however, who watched the pro¬ 
cession, connected Veronica with it in any serious 
sense. To them she was merely a vain negro girl, 
parading herself and wantonly flirting with the big, 
broad-shouldered man, who led the procession. 

A hundred yards from the court house, however, 
something happened to electrify the on-lookers. 
Veronica stepped up to Alex and whispered: 


LOVE AND POLITICS 69 

“Now, you holler fer Judge Breen, en you holler 

loudr 

For a moment, Alex hesitated. Then, suddenly, 
his head went up. Perhaps it would be hard to say 
how much he was influenced by his desire to please 
Veronica, and how much by his inherent love of sen¬ 
sation. Anyway, his head went up and he yelled: 

“Hurrah for Judge Breen!” 

Fifty voices took up the cry, and in a solid mass 
the fifty negroes marched toward the polls, still 
crying for Judge Breen in an united voice that car¬ 
ried far over the little town. 

It reached Ranse Jordan across the court house 
yard. He turned and ran toward Alex, his face dis¬ 
torted with rage. 

‘ Stop dar!” he cried, “Stop dar, you crazy nig¬ 
ger. You done sol’ out.” He laid his hand on Alex’s 
arm, but the younger man shoved him away with a 
force that sent him to his knees. 

As he rose, he found himself face to face with 
Rob Markham. 

“Shut up,” said Rob coolly. “If you touch that 
boy, or attempt to molest him, after we leave here, 
I will see what can be done about last night. I 
know every move that you made.” 

Jordan turned away and went behind the court 


70 


LOVE AND POLITICS 


house, grumbling volubly, for he knew that his fol¬ 
lowing was gone. 

When Alex had voted his crowd, he turned sheep¬ 
ishly to face Rob Markham. He had begun to sus¬ 
pect that Rob knew something of the scented note. 

“You better go hunt up Veronica, Alex,” Rob 
said with a smile; “that is a fine girl, and I hope you 
get her.” 

“I done got her,” said Alex with a grin, as he 
went to join Veronica, who stood waiting for him 
beside a tree on the court house lawn. 


AUNT SAVANNAH’S 
WHITE FOLKS 




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AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE 
FOLKS 


‘^QERENA. Hi, Serena!” Aunt Savannah stood in 
^ the doorway of the little cabin holding her 
hand to shade her eyes from the glare of the 
sun. Her voice, high and quavering, carried to the 
branch, two hundred yards away, where Serena bent 
over the wash-tub. 

“Mammy gits mighty impatience, when dat co’n 
pone am done,” she said to herself, but aloud she 
called: 

“Cornin’, Mammy, des soon es I gits des clo’s’ 
in de pot.” 

The old woman turned back into the kitchen, and 
went about placing the simple meal of corn bread, 
cabbage and black coffee on the little uncovered 
pine table. 

“It aint much dinner,” she mused, “yit I aint got 
no right ter complain. It’s mo’ dan Miss Lucy 
got. I des ’bout go crazy when I thinks o’ Miss 
Lucy.” 

“What’s dat. Mammy?” queried the young wom¬ 
an, as she came in at the door; “I sho’ does smell 
sumpen good.” She raised the lid from the covered 


73 


74 


AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 


dish on the back of the stove. “I knowed I smelled 
sumpen ’sides cabbuges. Gittin’ mighty ’straver- 
gant, Mammy! Whar’d you git dat briler?” 

“Go on ’way frum. heah, nigger,’’ said Aunt Sa¬ 
vannah; “don’t you tech dat chickun; dat aint fer 
de likes er you; dat’s Miss Lucy’s chickun.” 

Serena took her seat, at the table, and helped her¬ 
self liberally to the cabbage, while she kept her eyes 
hungrily on the covered dish. 

“Dat’s des de way wid you. Mammy,” she com¬ 
plained, “eberyt’ing you git you alius thinkin’ bout 
dem white folks, en—” 

“Sho’, I is!” interrupted Aunt Savannah angrily; 
“dem’s my white folks. It mighty neer drives me 
’stracted ter think er Miss Lucy up dar in dat big 
hous’ wid maybe not ernuf ter eat.” 

“I don’ see no signs er we-alls being foundered,” 
complained Serena. 

“Shet up!” snapped Aunt Savannah, in the voice 
of one who had reached the end of her endurance. 
“You des es crazy ’bout Miss Lucy es I is.” 

Serena laughed. 

“Co’s’ I is Mammy: I wus des projickin’ wid you 
ter hear you r’ar. You sho’ does think yer white 
folks is quality, don’t you. Mammy?” 

“En dey is quality,” answered Aunt Savannah, 
proudly. “Don’t I ’member whut a time we-alls 


AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 75 


used ter hab in dat big house, when Miss Lucy wus 
young, and she was de puttiest gal in dis kentry? 
or Ma’ster en OF Miss wus so proud o’ dat chil’ 
dat dey ’bout crazy. She had ebryt’ing she want— 
dat wus fo’ or Ma’ster got po’—en now she aint 
got nuffen. I ’dare fo’ God, Serena, I don’t see how 
or Ma’ster en Ol’ Miss kin be happy in Heben ef 
dey see how ’tis back heah.” 

“Maybe dey don’t know,” said Serena, consol¬ 
ingly. 

“Maybe not,” Aunt Savannah acquiesced; “ef 
dey do, I don’t see how dey res’ in dey grabes. Des 
think ef 01’ Ma’ster could see de kerrige bosses go, 
den de jew’lry he gib de chil’, en dat he gib 01’ 
Miss, de furnitu’ eben, all ’sensin’ dat she bleege 
ter hab, done gone! De house she lib in aint hers., 
dat eben ’longs ter dat onnery Judge Brent. De 
skinflint!” 

“How come he skinflint. Mammy?” Aint he 
some o’ yo’ white folks,—aint he Miss Lucy’s 
c’usin ?” 

“Dat how come I say he skinflint,” admitted the 
old woman, grudgingly. “Sho’ he’s Miss Lucy’s 
c’usin, en dat de reason he ought ter see dat she hab 
ernuf ter lib on. He got plenty, God knows! Hit 
des riles me, when I see dat Miss Brent, what wus er 
overseer’s daughter, en dem red haided gals o’ his’n, 


76 AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 

gibin’ de’se’ves airs, en er ridin’ ’round in dat otter- 
mobile, when Miss Lucy is so po’ she can’t hardly 
lib. I guess I aint the onlies one what ’members 
when it wus de odder way, ’cepin’ 01’ Ma’ster’s 
folks aint neber gib de’se’ves no airs ’bout nuthin’, 
en dem wid three kerriges, en high steppin’ bosses. 
I tell you dem kerrige bosses des make er ottermo- 
bile look cheap es dut. Eberybody kin hab dem 
things whut wants ’em, but I ’spressly ’fers bosses, 
dey’s de onliest things fer quality. I boun’ you dat 
or Ma’ster wouldn’t gib one of dem ill-smellin’ 
things room in his mule bawn. He didn’t hab no 
call ter go runnin’ ’round de kentry at break-neck 
speed; when OP Ma’ster sont word dat he wus corn¬ 
in’ people wus glad ter wait fer him. He wus a gen’- 
man, en his pa afo’ him—it wus his pa dat own me, 
when I wus er gal no older den you is. Dat how 
come I call dem my white folks. Miss Lucy’s pa 
wus des er young man when de wah break out, but 
he got ter be er Cap’ain ’fo long. It wus de fust 
year o’ de wah dat he ma’y Miss Lucy en bring her 
home ter we-alls, en f’um dat day on hit wus Miss 
Lucy whut own me, body en soul. Talk erbout 
bein’ sot free, when a body own you like dat, dar 
aint no sich thing es being sot free! Es fer es dat 
go I hed all de freedom I want es long es Miss 
Lucy, whut wus de mother o’ de Miss Lucy you 


AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 77 


know, lib. It wus atter she die dat I done been 
slabin’ all mer life. 

“I ’dare fo’ God, Serena, I aint neber see nuthin’ 
es prutty es mer young Miss wus, les it wus er flower 
wid de light o’ de mawnin’ on hit, fo’ hit shed de 
dew, dat wus des de way she look, all fresh and 
sparkly like. En er engil in Hebin couldn’t be bet¬ 
ter den she wus ter we-alls. Dat how come I can’t 
stand ter see her li’l girl suffer.” 

The old woman’s voice had grown husky with 
emotion, and two big tears had gathered in her 
eyes and threatened to overflow. 

“Den you better not be settin’ dar tell dat briler 
spile,” said Serena, briskly. “Go fix yer’se’f up, while 
I knocks tergedder a few o’ mer cream biskits ter 

go wid dat briler.” 

. .X 

Serena prided herself on her culinary art, and as 

she went about her work, her face shone and she 
broke into song. 

“Dem biskits ready?” Aunt Savannah suddenly 
appeared in the doorway, and so great was the 
transformation she had made in her appearance 
that it was hard to believe that she was the same 
old negro, who, a moment before, had resembled 
nothing so much as a ragged effigy set up in some 
corn field. Now, the rags had been laid aside, and 
she wore a neat gingham dress; a big apron, snowy 


78 AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 


white and as smooth as glass; a white ’kerchief, a 
relic of the past, was crossed over her shoulders, 
and pinned with a big oval brooch. 

“Does I look pros’pr’ous ernuf?” she asked with 
a grin of pardonable pride. 

“ ’Fo’ God, Mammy, you look like de Queen o’ 
Sheba,” said Serena, showing her thirty-two teeth in a 
broad grin. And from some unaccountable place, 
she brought forth a damask tray-cloth, with which 
she covered the tin tray, on which she placed the 
tenderly broiled chicken and the beaten biscuits. 

“Dar, dat am fit fer er king, en de Queen o’ Sheba 
gwine ter ca’y hit,” Serena laughed as she handed 
the tray to her mother. 

“I ’dare fo’ God, Mammy, you would sell your 
soul fer Miss Lucy! Dar you go now wid de onliest 
dress you’s had fer five years, des saved fer ter 
weah ter Miss Lucy’s, en de las’ chickun ole Spec 
done raised dis summer—en de Lawd knows whar 
de nex’ one cornin’ f’um,” she added seriously. 
Then, the grin came back: 

“En I boun’ you tell mo’ lies dis day dan An’nias 
cn Safira.” 

“But I boun’ I don’ get struck down dead,” said 
Aunt Savannah defiantly. “Hit aint no hawm ter lie 
ter er po’ sick soul like Miss Lucy, when it com¬ 
forts her.” 


AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 79 


Aunt Savannah turned and walked sedately up 
the hill, to where the old Sherwood home, once dig¬ 
nified by the grandiose title of mansion, stood, now 
so weather-beaten and dilapidated as to be hardly 
habitable. 

The old woman let herself in at the back, and 
made her way silently to the room, which had once 
been the library, but now served Miss Lucy as libra¬ 
ry, living room and bed room, with space to spare. 

In one corner, reclining in a big chair, almost big 
enough to serve as bed for the very little lady who 
occupied it, sat Miss Lucy. Her face, which must 
have been, years before, very much like Savannah’s 
description of her young mistress—“a flower wid de 
light o’ mawnin’ on hit ’fo hit sheds de dew,” lit up 
with the wraith of a smile, as she saw Aunt Savan¬ 
nah standing in the doorway. 

“How is you terday. Honey?” the old voice held 
those wonderfully tender, crooning tones, which we 
sometimes hear in those of her race, bending over 
children. 

“About as usual,” smiled Miss Lucy. 

“You gwine ter eat dis nice chickun. Mammy done 
bring you, en des nice cream biskits Serena done 
cook ’spressly fer you.” She put the tray down on 
a little table, gave it a few deft touches and wheeled 
it within reach. 


8o AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 


“Dar!” she said triumphantly, “don’t dat look 
good?” 

“It certainly does.” Tears were in Miss Lucy’s 
voice. “Sometimes, I wonder how Elijah felt 
when the ravens came. God sends you just as 
surely, but you must not deny yourself. Mammy. 
It must be hard to find chicken at this time of 
year.” 

“ ’Deed it taint,” the old woman assured her, 
“you des ought ter see dat big brood in mer back 
ya’d right now, en mer pantry es mos’ full o’ 
jelly en stuff es Miss’ uster be. Don’t you worry 
’bout me. Honey, I’se all right. Sam, dat boy whut 
you ’members es sich a onnery little nigger, done 
growed up, en you would be s’prised ter see whut 
a good ’vider he makes. No, Honey, I aint de- 
nyin’ merse’f nuffen.” 

Aunt Savannah paused for breath. She be¬ 
thought her of Ananias and Saphira, but she did 
not listen for the feet of the young men. “It aint 
no hawm ter lie like dat,” she whispered to herself, 
and the relieved smile in Miss Lucy’s eyes was 
balm to her conscience. 

“But, how about you. Miss Lucy?” she queried. 
“Is you got whut you need—medicine, fruit, wine? 
Anyt’ing you need. I’ll fin’ hit sum way. I’ll des 
sabe er li’l o’ dat whut me en Serena wastes on 


AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 8i 


dem movies. Dey’s monstrous funny, but dey aint 
good fer de eyes.” 

Aunt Savannah had seen one in her life and the 
memory still lingered. 

“No, no,” Miss Lucy hastened to object, “I will 
do very well now. There is nothing I have to have 
that you do not bring me. Last week I sold a 
mother-of-pearl picture frame—the one I had on 
my dressing table so long, Mammy—but, I still 
have the picture.” Her voice broke. 

“My po’ chir, ” groaned Aunt Savannah, “why 
didn’t you let me know? I could ’ve done sumpen. 
My po’ li’l chil’. ” 

“When I am stronger,” Miss Lucy continued, 
Mrs. Green wants me to coach her little girl so 
that she will pass her grade in Latin, but I am too 
weak yet.” 

“Yas’m,” crooned Aunt Savannah, as she sat 
stroking the thin blue-veined hand. Inwardly she 
was boiling. “Nice kind people nuffen,” she was 
thinking, “dey wants mcr po’ sick chil’ ter beat 
some Latin inter de haid o’ dat gal, en she aint fit 
fer er do’ mat fer Miss Lucy!” 

At last when Miss Lucy had eaten every bite 
that Aunt Savannah could urge on her, and had 
been made as comfortable as possible. Aunt Savan¬ 
nah made her way home with a troubled face. 


82 AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 


“Dat chir is growin’ weaker en weaker, en hit 
aint right dat she aint got somebody ter keep keer 
o’ her, ’sides me. Dar aint nobudy ’longs ter Miss 
Lucy, but Jedge Brent, en Miss Lucy is prouder 
den Lucifer. Dis am er mighty ticklish business, 
nigger, but sumpen’s got ter be done, en hits got ter 
be done quick.” 

She went on past the cabin, stopping long enough 
to set the tray of dishes inside the door, and went 
to join Serena, at the wash-place. She dropped 
wearily down on a stump, where Serena had been 
“battling” clothes. 

“Look out, Mammy, you gwine ter spile dem 
visitin’ clo’s’!” 

“Shut up,” snapped Aunt Savannah, jumping up 
with alacrity; “dese clo’s’ gwine ter out las’ Miss 
Lucy yit, ef sumpen aint done.” 

jShe walked slowly up and down the branch, her 
wrinkled hands working convulsively at her side. 
Her mind was filled with vague, half-shaped 
thoughts, always, of ways and means to help Miss 
Lucy, for whom she. would, as Serena had said, 
have sold her soul. She could get hold of nothing 
tangible, and she continued • her restless pacings, 
talking to herself as she walked: , 

“I done rastled tell my strength mos’ gone. I 
des got ter fin’ somebody ter he’p.” 


AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 83 


Suddenly she came to a halt before Serena. 

“Did you eber heah o’ sich a man es Dan’l?” 
she queried. 

“Yas’m,” Serena was frankly puzzled. 

“En how he bearded de lions in dey dens?” 

“Yas’m,” Serena was beginning to see light. She 
had thought that Dan’l might be somebody to 
wTom Aunt Savannah thought of going for assist¬ 
ance, but, now she saw that her grandmother was 
only dealing in her accustomed figure of speech. 

“Well, he come out erlive,” continued Aunt 
Savannah, “en I reckin Jedge Brent can’t eat me.” 

With that she turned and walked as fast as her 
years, which were making themselves felt in her 
stiffened joints, would permit. She went in the di¬ 
rection of Judge Brent’s office. 

She was out of breath, when that dignified and 
formidable person let her in. And, as she sat 
fighting for breath, she felt the courage that had 
boosted her up, oozing from every pore of her 
skin. She had come filled with a righteous indig¬ 
nation, bent on telling Judge Brent what she 
thought of him, for ignoring one of his own blood 
as he had ignored Miss Lucy. And, now, that 
she was face to face with him, she was frightened. 
She did not know what frightened her more—the 
thought that she might let this man know more 



''Dar am er heap o’ did, er heap'o’ did, en de people do lib 
so raggedy.” 





















































AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 85 


than Miss Lucy would have him know, or that she 
might not be able to tell him enough. 

It was Judge Brent who broke the silence. 

“What can I do for you, Auntie?” His voice 
was gruff, but not unkind. “Did you come about 
Sam?” 

It was not a propitious beginning. Aunt Savan¬ 
nah was not proud of Sam, who was serving a 
ten-year sentence in the penitentiary, and she 
hoped that, during this interview, it would be ig¬ 
nored. 

“No, sah, I didn’t come ’bout Sam,” she said 
humbly. “I ’spec Sam’s ’bout whar he ought ter 
be, Ma’s Henry. Dat sholy is er onnery nigger, 
ef he is my gran’son. Dis am gettin’ ter be er 
mighty bad worl’, Ma’s Henry,” she added sol¬ 
emnly. “Dar am er heap o’ dut, er heap o’ dut, en 
de people do live so raggedy!” 

“You are right, Aunt Savannah,” Judge Brent 
smiled. “And it is not only your race, who live 
raggedly, either.” 

“ ’Deed it aint,” said Aunt Savannah, warmly. 
“Hit look like white folks oughter hab ernuf sense 
fer to live right, but sometimes hit ’pears like dey’s 
mos’ es bad es we-alls. But I alius been mighty 
proud o’ my white folks, Ma’s Henry.” 

The old diplomat smiled ingratiatingly. 


86 AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 


“Whar you gwine ter fin’ any mo’ folks like mer 
folks, en you’s, Ma’s Henry? You sho’ does look 
mighty like yo’ pa, en he wus des like mer 01’ 
Ma’ster, his brudder.” 

“I wonder what the old croon wants?” the Judge 
thought, but he only slipped his feet further under 
his desk, settled himself more comfortably in his 
chair and waited patiently. 

“I wus des tellin’ Miss Lucy terday, how I 
’membered de time when you uster alius be ober 
ter our house, en how you en her uster set so 
much sto’ by wun ernudder. My! warnt she fine, 
Ma’s Henry? Alius at your heels, des like she wus 
yer shadder.” 

The old woman paused. She did not hear the 
feet of the young men, but she trembled in her 
shoes. She did not care how much or how long 
she lied, she only prayed that the Judge would not 
remember enough to know that she lied. She 
watched his face furtively and saw nothing to 
alarm her. Perhaps he had accepted her words as 
literally true. So vague, sometimes, are men’s 
memories, that the things they have dreamed of 
are, often, more real than the things they have 
done. The Judge’s face softened and his eves 
grew dreamy. Perhaps, they were seeing after 
all these years, the little golden-haired cousin, who 


AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 87 


danced through all the dreams of his boyhood with 
the elusiveness of a will-o’-the-wisp. Any way, as 
Aunt Savannah watched his face, she gathered cour¬ 
age to go on. 

“Hit’s mighty lonesome fer Miss Lucy, since 01 ’ 
Miss done been tuk, en she mighty poly herse’f. 
Miss Lucy is.” 

Suddenly under the stress of her great need, 
Aunt Savannah threw precaution to the wind, and 
into the Judge’s astonished ears she poured her 
pitiful tale. She told it all in her broken, confused 
way, of how Miss Lucy had proudly hidden from 
the world the fact that her father had left her 
nothing; how she had scrimped and saved; how she 
had sold things,—luxuries first, comforts next then 
necessities, until, now, she sat there in the old 
house, face to face with dire need, but still too 
proud to call on her only surviving relative for 
help. 

“I ’dare ’fo’ God, Ma’s Henry,” the old wom¬ 
an ended suddenly, “I don’ see how you let dat 
chil’ set dar by herse’f, en her mos’ sick unter def, 
en nuffen ter eat in de house ’cepin’ whut I ca’y 
her.” 

Judge Brent sat up, the dreamy look gone from 
his eyes, and looked searchingly into the old wom¬ 
an’s face. 


88 AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 


“Suppose you tell me just what you mean,” he 
said simply. “You seem to be blaming me, some 
way, for Miss Lucy’s sufferings. God knows she 
has never given me any sign that she needed me, 
or wanted me. If she had—” 

“Dat’s dis hit,” interrupted the old woman, “she 
aint gwine ter gib you no sign. Dat’s des her pride. 
Ef she knowed whut I wus doin’ now, I boun’ she 
would neber speak ter me agin. But I des couldn’t 
he’p hit, Ma’s Henry. Terday I cooked de las’ 
chickun I got, en Serena she make cream biskits 
outen de las’ dus’ o’ flour in de house. Dat don’t 
make no diffunce es fer es we-alls consarned, but 
whar Miss Lucy’s brilers and cream biskits gwine ter 
come f’um is whut I wants ter know. Dat’s how 
comes I’s heah, Ma’s Henry.” 

“I didn’t know! As God is my witness, I didn’t 
know,” said Judge Brent earnestly. “I have been 
so busy. Sometimes, I hardly know what my own 
people are doing. But now that you have shown 
me that something must be done, suppose you tell 
me what I can do. Miss Lucy is not going to be 
easy to do things for, if I remember right.” 

“Dat she aint,” acquiesced Aunt Savannah, “but 
it aint fer me to be telling you what and how to do, 
Ma’s Henry. I knowed ef I could des make you see 
dat sumpen ought ter be done dat you would fin’ 


AUNT SAVANNAH’S WHITE FOLKS 89 


er way, en I knowed hit would be de right way. My 
white folks don’t neber do things by ha’ves.” 

“Yes, I must find a way,” the judge said musing¬ 
ly, but until I do, here is something with which 
to buy Miss Lucy’s ‘brilers’. ” 

He put his hand in his pocket and handed her a 
bill, which she tucked into her ’kerchief without so 
much as a look at the denomination. 

“Thank you kindly, Ma’s Henry, en I gwine ter 
trus’ you ter fin’ er way.” 

With an old-fashioned curtsy she was gone. 

Quickly she made her way back home, her face 
wreathed in smiles. 

“Look heah,” she said triumphantly, as she 
walked into the cabin, where Serena bent over an 
ironing board. “Look here whut Ma’s Henry 
done gib me fer ter buy things fer Miss Lucy.” 
She took the bill from her ’kerchief, and for the 
first time looked at the denomination. The one 
hundred was no surprise to her. 

“En she gwine ter hab eberything she need now. I 
wouldn’t be ’sprised ef Ma’s Henry tak’ her up 
ter his big house ter lib in luxury like she uster.” 

“Who? Dat skinflint Judge Brent?” queried 
Serena. 

Aunt Savannah turned on her furiously. 

“Don’t you call none o’ my white folks skinflint, 
nigger!” 




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UNCLE LIGE PLEADS 
HIS OWN CASE 



UNCLE LICE PLEADS HIS 
OWN CASE 


Tt was Monday morning, January i, 1916. In 
the court room there was gathered the same 
people you will find any Monday morning at 
the regular session of the Mayor’s Court of Cam¬ 
den. There were the half dozen young lawyers, 
who were still glad enough of the fees to be 
gained from such cases, the City Attorney, Jack 
Marsden, and Dan Herndon, the young Mayor. 

Besides these, there were the usual prisoners. If 
not the same prisoners, at least the same types. 

Dan Herndon let his keen gray eyes run over 
the room, speculatively, and so well did he know 
the types, that he felt it would be easy to dispense 
justice without the evidence in each case. 

He settled himself in his chair and was reach¬ 
ing for his gavel, when his eyes fell on a prisoner 
of an altogether different type, an old negro of the 
ante-bellum variety, wearing a long broadcloth 
coat, much the worse for service, but neatly brushed 
and darned, showing a wide expanse of white shirt 
front, and a black stock of the style of the early 
sixties. The old face framed by snow white hair, 


93 


94 UNCLE LIGE PLEADS HIS OWN CASE 

was as black as it is possible for a human face to be, 
and so wrinkled and wizened as to resemble an old 
parchment burned black, but, withal, so kindly that 
one found it hard to mistrust its owner. 

“Uncle Lige, by all that’s holy!” murmured the 
Mayor to the City Attorney, who was leaning on 
his desk. “What is the charge?” 

“Selling whiskey,” answered Marsden. 

“I am from Missouri,” whispered Herndon. 
“Uncle Lige never had enough whiskey to sell 
in his life, and it isn’t against the law to drink it 
yet.” 

“More’s the pity,” snapped Marsden. 

“You’ll have to have a darn good case, before I 
believe you,” laughed the Mayor. 

“We have it!” exulted Marsden. 

The Mayor took up the gavel and court was 
called to order. Dan Herndon had only a hazy rec¬ 
ollection of the first part of the session. He pre¬ 
sided from force of habit, while his mind was filled 
with conjectures regarding Uncle Lige. He had 
known the old negro all his life and found it hard 
to believe that he would do anything that he 
thought was wrong, but he knew the race well 
enough to understand the vagaries of mind and con¬ 
science common to them all, and in his mind lurked 
the fear that the old man had been made the cats- 
paw of some shrewd young negro. 


UNCLE LIGE PLEADS HIS OWN CASE 95 


There also lurked in his mind the suspicion that 
this might be a cleverly concocted scheme to em¬ 
barrass him in the oncoming election, in which he 
was being opposed for Mayor by a man who was 
fanatical on the question of prohibition. Dan, 
himself, was not “wet,’^ but his sympathy for offend¬ 
ers on certain occasions was being used against 
him in a telling way. 

“Might as well not arrest your man,” the City 
Attorney had been quoted as saying; “Dan Hern¬ 
don can not see evidence, when he does not want 
to—and he never wants to when is it whiskey.” 

Dan thought of this now, as he looked at the 
hard, calculating face of Marsden. 

“Pretty clever of them,” he thought, “especial¬ 
ly if Uncle Lige is to be the victim, but I will not 
play to the galleries by being a party to any damn 
frame-up.” 

When the case against Uncle Lige was finally 
called, the Mayor asked kindly: 

“Are you ready for trial, Uncle Lige?” 

“I reckin I is, Ma’s Dan, jes es ready es I’ll be 
jedgmint day when I is called in de big co’t.” 

“Who is your counsel?” asked the Mayor. 

“Mer what, Ma’s Dan?” 

“Your lawyer,” explained the Mayor; “who is 
going to plead your case for you?” 


96 UNCLE LIGE PLEADS HIS OWN CASE 


“I is,” Uncle Lige answered simply. 

A smile rippled over the court room. 

“But you will need a lawyer, you know,” contin¬ 
ued the Mayor. 

“No, indeedy,” insisted Uncle Lige. “Ef I wus 
g’ilty, now, dat would be diffunt; I would den git 
Ma’s John Maxwell ober dar to holp me, fer I 
dun see him cl’ar a mighty heap o’ g’ilty niggers.” 

The Mayor had to call the court to order, with 
an emphatic rap of his gavel. 

“Howsumeber,” continued Uncle Lige, “since I’s 
innocent, I don’ need no lawyer. You knows 
me, Ma’s Dan; you’s knowed me eber since you 
wus es high es dat.” 

The old man leaned forward and held his hand 
not more than two feet from the floor, while he 
looked earnestly into the face of the young man. 

“I uster b’long ter yo’ gran’pa fo’ de wah, en 
does yer reckin dat a nigger wid white folks like 
dat, gwine ter disgrace ’em by runnin’ ’round er sell- 
in’ licker ter niggers? Huh?” 

“You are out of order. Uncle Lige,” the Mayor 
said brusquely, but a smile crept into his eyes. “Just 
w^ait until your time comes and then I will ask Mr. 
Maxwell to help you, since you have such confi¬ 
dence in his ability.” 

The old man took his seat unwillingly and sat 
shaking his head. 


UNCLE LIGE PLEADS HIS OWN CASE 97 


“I don’ need no lawyer,” he kept grumbling; “I 
don’ need no lawyer.” I gwine ter plead mer o’n 
cas’. ” 

Marsden, the City Attorney, had said that he 
had a good case, and before he was through, it 
seemed that he was right. 

The first witness sworn for the State was a young 
negro giving his name as Sam Boggus. Sam wore 
a plaid shirt, a red tie, and a huge brass chain across 
his chest. He affected a brogue picked up in some 
Northern city, altogether new to his listeners, but 
he told an ugly tale. Dan Herndon’s eyes grew 
troubled as he listened. 

Boggus said that, on the 26th day of December, 
he had gone to Lige Herndon’s house and that 
Lige had given him a drink of the best whiskey he 
had ever tasted, and, when he asked him if he kept 
that brand all the time, he said: “Not ter give 
erway.” 

He said further that he had gone back that after¬ 
noon, and offered to buy a pint of the whiskey and 
that Lige had sold it to him. He stated that Mr. 
Jones, a policeman, had witnessed the transaction. 

When Jones went upon the stand, Dan’s heart 
dropped into his boots. So diligent had Jones be¬ 
come in the fight against whiskey that he had offer¬ 
ed a reward for every “blind-tiger” turned in, and, 


98 UNCLE LIGE PLEADS HIS OWN CASE 

consequently, business in the Mayor’s court had 
picked up. Aside from his fanatical leanings to¬ 
ward prohibition, it was plain to see that he be¬ 
longed to that class of people, who instinctively hate 
the negro. 

“The descendant of some whip-lashing over¬ 
seer,” thought Herndon, and he groaned inwardly. 

The play of emotions that chased each other 
over Uncle Lige’s face was as varied as a kaleido¬ 
scope, but, all the time, his eyes sought those of the 
young Mayor with the trustfulness of a dog look¬ 
ing at his master. 

“Tell the court what you know about this man 
selling whiskey,” coached the City Attorney, when 
Jones had been sworn. 

“Well,” began Jones, and his mouth twitched 
like a cat’s when it holds the mouse between its 
claws, “it was the 26th of December, when I met 
Sam Boggus in that little alley back of Mr. Den¬ 
ton’s store and he was drunk. I asked him where 
he got the whiskey and he said he bought it from 
Lige Herndon, and he promised me if I would meet 
him there that afternoon he would prove to me 
that Lige was selling it. I met him and he said if 
I would follow him, he would show me how it was 
done. I followed him, and he went into Lige Hern¬ 
don’s house. I crept up to the window and peeped 


UNCLE LIGE PLEADS HIS OWN CASE 99 


in to see what was happening. I saw Lige go to 
the cupboard, take down a quart bottle, pour some¬ 
thing into a pint bottle and give it to Boggus; 
Boggus laid a dollar on the table and went out. I 
met him at the door, and the pint bottle had whis¬ 
key in it.” 

“Ugh!” muttered Uncle Lige, in disgust, “I 
didn’t know befo’ dat white folks went er spyin’ 
on oP niggers.” 

“Be quiet. Uncle Lige,” commanded Herndon, 
but his face hardened as he looked at Jones. 

“Now, Uncle Lige,” said Maxwell, who had 
come forward, when the State dlosed, “suppose 
you tell us all about this matter?” 

For a moment Uncle Lige stood looking about 
him, with a puzzled face. 

“Just go ahead. Uncle Lige,” encouraged Dan, 
who was in a humor to deal gently with the old 
man, “just go ahead and tell us how it all hap¬ 
pened.” 

“Look heah, Ma’s Dan,” said Uncle Lige, 
leaning eagerly forward and looking into Dan’s 
eyes, “I gwine ter tell you how dis happened an’ 
you gwine ter bleebe me, case you knows me. Dat 
white man don’ know nuffen ’bout niggers a-tall, er 
he’d know better then to trus’ dat highferlutin’ 
Sam Boggus. Now, you knows niggers, Marse 
Dan.” 


lOO 


UNCLE LIGE PLEADS HIS OWN CASE 


“Yes,” murmured Dan, “go ahead.” 

“Well, de day ’fo’ Chrismus I went ober ter 
Ma’s Henry Harrison’s, en he ’low: ‘what is the 
prosspec’ fer Chrismus, Lige?’ an’ I ’low dat dis 
wus de fustest Chrismus since I bin had er fambly 
dat I aint had er li’l sumpen er nuther ter drink. 
Den Ma’s Henry he gib me er qua’t o’ de bes* 
licker you eber smak yer mout’ ober, de kin’ what 
or Ma’s uster make de mint-juleps wid in de sum¬ 
mer time en de egg-nog in de winter—” 

“I object to all that rigamarole,” rasped Mars- 
den; “we did not come here to listen to reminis¬ 
cences.” 

“O, let him alone, Marsden,” pleaded Maxwell, 
“let him tell it in his own way.” 

“I gwine ter tell hit de bes’ I kin,” said Uncle Lige 
humbly. “It wus de day atter Chrismus, when dis 
Boggus nigger what say I sol’ him de licker, come 
ter mer hous’ ter see mer gal, Ma’y Jane. I didn’t 
like he looks, en I sot on him purty hard. I tol’ 
him ef he wus lookin’ fer er gal ter ’sport him, tak- 
in’ in washin’, dat he better go summers else, case 
dar aint er lazier nigger in dis town dan dat gal, en 
dat am the Lo’d A’mighty’s-truf! Boggus sassed 
back er li’le while, but when he see I aint gwine ter 
gib him no chance ter talk ter Ma’y Jane, he ’lowed 
he would be goin’. Den, case I hates ter be unhos- 


UNCLE LIGE PLEADS HIS OWN CASE loi 


pit’ble, I ax him ter hab er dram. En I tell you 
atter dat, dat nigger was slo’ ter go, but he did 
atter er whiP. ” 

“Howsumeber, he come back er li’l later in de 
day, en ’low dat Sis Bascom, de preacher’s wife, dun 
been tuk wid er mis’ry in her side, en Brer Bascom 
want ter know ef I didn’t hab er li’l drap er whiskey 
ter send her. I ’membered de time when Brer Bas¬ 
com dun make me der objec’ o’ more dan one pinted 
disco’se, en hed ’cused me er bein’ too fon’ o’ de 
flesh-pots o’ Egupt, en er lookin’ on de wine when 
’twus red, en so on. But I knowed dat Sis Bascom 
couldn’t he’p dat, so I went en got dat bottle whut 
Ma’s Henry done gib me, en sont her a pint. En 
bless, God, Ma’s Dan, when I went bak ter de 
fiah, I see dat dat Boggus nigger done gon en lef’ 
er dollar on de table.” 

No one made any effort to interrupt the old man, 
as he told the story. Even the City Attorney ac¬ 
cepted it in silence, but there was a sarcastic smile 
on his dark, sinister face that maddened Dan. 

‘And what did you do with the dollar?” asked 
Maxwell, when he had stood a moment in silence. 

“Why, I gib it back o’ co’se,” he said with dignity. 
“I aint neber sol’ er sick naber nuffen yit, much less 
licker.” 

Then the old man turned back to face the young 


102 


UNCLE LIGE PLEADS HIS OWN CASE 


Mayor, upon whose face his eyes had been fixed 
throughout the story, and resumed: 

“Dat ebenin’ I tol’ Celie dat I would go ober en 
see how Sis Bascom wus. When I got dah, Sis Bas- 
com warn’t sick, but Brer Bascom en dat nigger 
Boggus wus des er bout es sick es two kinds er whis¬ 
key kin make er man. I tol’ Brer Bascom dat I 
mought be fond o’ de flesh-pots o’ Egupt, but dat 
I hed er better stumick dan he did, en ef he wus 
gwine ter ’peat dat p’formance, dat he better ’sign 
frum de pulpit, ’case er drunk preacher warn’t va’y 
’ticin’ ter sinners. Den I gib dat Boggus nigger 
dat dollar en tol’ him he better mind how he run 
erroun’ ’suitin’ self-respectin’ folks er tryin’ ter pay 
fer whut dey done gib him, en I boun’ his dollars 
don’ grow on trees no mo’ den mine do, en he need¬ 
n’t be tryin’ ter ’tend like dey so plen’ful. 

“En now, Ma’s Dan,” he ended naively, “I 
hopes you is ready fer me ter go home. Celie will 
be waitin’ dinner, en it riles her fer me to be late.” 

For a moment Dat sat perfectly still, looking 
steadily in the face of the old man. Not for one 
moment did he doubt the truth of the story Uncle 
Lige had told, but he felt the eyes of Marsden and 
Policeman Jones resting on him resentfully. 

“I call it a shame,” growled Jones, in a tone that 
reached Dan’s ears, “if a white man’s word isn’t 
worth more than a nigger’s.” 


UNCLE LIGE PLEADS HIS OWN CASE 103 


“I never heard such a cock-and-bull story,” said 
Marsden. ‘‘Of course he sold the whiskey.” 

Dan raised himself lazily to his feet, and stood 
a moment, smiling his slow, easy smile. 

As he stood looking defiantly into the eyes of 
Marsden, he was really seeing the coveted place 
as Mayor of the thriving little city slipping from 
his grasp; he was seeing the keen disappointment 
in the face of the girl he loved, and with whom he 
had planned the many things he hoped to see done. 
He felt sure now that the whole thing had been 
planned to entrap him. 

“Good propaganda,” he thought. “I have seen 
many a man beaten with less, but—” 

Again his eyes sought the face of the old negro, 
who was looking at him with the trustful eyes of 
a child. 

“Propaganda be damned!” he muttered to him¬ 
self, and aloud he announced: 

“I find the prisoner not guilty.” 

Then turning to Uncle Lige, he said, playfully: 

“Run on home to dinner. Uncle Lige, Aunt Celie 
might be riled.” 


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THE OWL FORETELLS 
A PARTING 





THE OWL FORETELLS 
A PARTING 


QARVENT, Ma’s Dan.” 

^ Dan Herndon looked up from the book he 
was reading to see Uncle Lige standing in the door¬ 
way of his law office. 

“Come in, Uncle Lige,” he said kindly, “come, 
sit down and tell me what I can do for you. You 
have not been selling any more blind-tiger whiskey, 
have you?” 

“No suh, no suh; hit aint nuffen so bad es dat,” 
Uncle Lige laughed, “but I come ter git you ter do 
a li’l piece o’ wuk fer me dis mawnin’. ” 

“All right. Out with it. Do you want a divorce 
from Celie?” 

Again Uncle Lige laughed, heartily. “Ma’s 
Dan, I wants you ter write mer will.” 

Dan smoothed the smile from his lips with his 
long thin hand, but his eyes when they met the old 
man’s were serious. 

“You are not getting ready to depart this mun¬ 
dane sphere, are you. Uncle Lige? You ought to 
be good for twenty years yet.” 

“I don’t know, Ma’s Dan, life is moughty un- 


107 


io8 THE OWL FORETELLS A PARTING 


sartain at bes’, en I’s er hittin’ it right ’long neer de 
hund’ed year ma’k.” 

“Sure enough?” queried Dan. 

“Yas, suh; I done libed er long time. I done 
been fru two wahs—de Mexican wah wid yo’ grand¬ 
pa, en de wah wid de Yankees wid yo’ pa—yes suh; 
I done libe er moughty long time.” 

“But you still look hale and hearty,” encouraged 
Dan, “and I hope you will be spared us for a long 
time yet.” 

“I thanks you kindly, Ma’s Dan, but I been 
feelin’ moughty poly dis spring, en I been tellin’ 
Celie dat I ’spec it aint long ’tel I be called, en las’ 
night de call come sho’ nuf.” 

“Were you sick?” asked the young man kindly. 

“No, suh; I warn’t sick. Des not feelin’ va’y 
spry, en when I go ter bed I can’t sleep. I des lay 
dah wid de thoughts cornin’ inter my haid fas’, like 
dey aint done since I wus young. I ’membered 
things I aint thought ’bout since I wus er boy, en de 
thoughts wus so r’al like dat dey make me feel quar. 
Why, Ma’s Dan, hit wus mos’ like seein’ er ghos’ 
de way I sensed yo’ gran’pa about me. I des lay 
dah, lookin’ out inter de moonlight, and libed ober 
de days when me and yo’ gran’pa wus young. 
Once I thought ’bout wakin’ Celie en axin’ her ef 
she sensed anythin’ quar ’bout de night, but dat nig- 


THE OWL FORETELLS A PARTING 109 


ger des lay dar snorin’, en me er feelin’ sperits in 
de va’y air. 

“I knows you don’t bleebe in sperits, Ma’s Dan, 
but dar’s a heap o’ moughty quar things in dis 
worl’. ” 

“ ‘There are more things in life, Horatio, than 
were ever dreamed of in your philosophy,’ ” quoted 
Dan. 

“Huh, what dat you say?” A look of surprise 
ran over the old man’s features. “Dat’s funny! 
Dat’s ’zactly whut 01’ Ma’ster uster say when 
I talk ’bout sperits, en I alius wonder why, ’case my 
name aint Horasho. You des like yo’ gran’pa, 
Ma’s Dan, en des like yo’ pa, too, ’case all de 
Herndon men des es like es black-eyed peas.” 

“But what about the call. Uncle Lige?” asked 
Dan reminding the old man of the tale he had 
started out to tell. He knew, from experience, 
that Uncle Lige was liable to digress so far that 
he would never find his way back to the main point 
unaided. 

“Oh, yes; I wus tellin’ you how I done been 
called las’ night. Well, I wus des layin’ dar look¬ 
in’ out on the moonlight, when I got de call. I 
heerd it fus’ ’way down in Peek’s Grove, des er 
common ole squinch owl, but you know whut dat 
means, Ma’s Dan. He say: ‘er-wee, er-wee-ee. 


no THE OWL FORETELLS A PARTING 


er-wee-ee-ee, ’des like dat. Den hit come nearer en 
light on de warnut tree right by mer win’ner en 
cry: ‘Er-wee, er-wee-ee-ee er-wee-ee-ee-ee,’ ’en 
Celie she des sleep right on. Dat how come I knowxd 
hit wus fer me. Den he holler de thu’d time: ‘Er- 
wee-er-wee-ee-ee er-wee-ee-ee.’ Den I tech Celie 
on de shoul’er en say: “Celie, dar’s gwine ter be er 
’partment.’ Dat nigger des set right up in bed en 
say: ‘Who dat callin’ Lige?’ Dat ’oman is sholy 
uncanny, when it comes ter signs. She knowed 
right off dat de sign wus fer me. Dat’s how come 
I heah dis mawnin’. Celie done been pesterin’ me 
’bout makin’ er will en leavin’ her mer ’fects, eber 
since she heerd ’em read you gran’pa’s w^ill, en 
yo’ pa would’er been lef’ out ef I hadn’t ’mem- 
bered ’bout dat udder will he done writ.” 

“All right,” said Dan in a business-like manner, 
as he bent over and tapped the bell that called 
the stenographer. 

Miss Bennett suddenly appeared in the door¬ 
way, with pencil and pad. Her clear grey eyes 
quickly took in the situation, and met Dan’s with 
a gleam of humor. Uncle Lige and his stories 
were not unknown to Miss Bennett. 

“Miss Bennett, Uncle Lige wants a will. You 
know the preamble, and do not spare the red 
tape.” 


THE OWL FORETELLS A PARTING iii 


She was sure that she knew the preamble, and 
they went immediately to the legacies. Uncle 
Lige’s “effects” did not make an impressive list, 
but Dan did his best to make some sort of a show¬ 
ing. 

“To my beloved wife, Celie,” was bequeathed 
each and every individual asset, from the humble 
house and lot on Cedar Hill to the family Bible. 
Only once did the document vary as to the name 
of the beneficiary. That was when Uncle Lige 
wanted Dan to have the powder horn, which he 
said had been carried through the Revolutionary 
War, and had been given to him by Dan’s great¬ 
grandfather. Then, it read: “To my young mas¬ 
ter and friend.” The wording here was Miss 
Bennett’s, and to Dan was left this old relic. 

“Is that all?” asked Dan kindly. 

“All ’sensin’ dat ’bout de soul.” 

Miss Bennett’s eyes again met Dan’s. 

“And to God, who gave it, I commit my soul. 
Amen,” she quoted solemnly. 

“Dat’s des hit, Miss,” said Uncle Lige, “dat’s des 
’zactly de way 01’ Ma’ster’s wus, en dat will please 
Celie moughtily.” 

Miss Bennett went to her private office to type 
the will. 

“Dat’s er uncommon smart young ’oman,” said 


12 THE OWL FORETELLS A PARTING 


Uncle Lige, when she was gone, “she knowed des 
’zactly whut I wanted.” 

“Yes,” agreed Dan, “Miss Bennett always un¬ 
derstands.” 

“When you gwine ter git ma’rid, Marse Dan?” 
Uncle Lige asked irrelevantly. 

Dan laughed, “Look out. Uncle Lige, you are 
getting on dangerous ground. But wouldn’t you 
advise me to do it as soon as a young lady, who 
always understands, says yes?” 

“’Deed I do; ’deed I do,” acquiesced Uncle 
Lige. “It’s er pow’ful comfort ter have er ’oman, 
whut understands widout bein toP. Dat’s whut 
makes Celie sich er comfort. Dat ’oman kin neer 
’bout read mer min’ faser dan I kin talk. You bet¬ 
ter ma’y dat gal, Ma’s Dan, ’fo’ some udder man 
fin’ how smart she am.” 

“Good advice,” laughed Dan. “But what was 
it you were saying about my grandfather’s will 
just as Miss Bennett came in?” 

“Didn’t I neber tell you dat story, Ma’s Dan?” 
Uncle Lige sat a moment, swelling with consequen¬ 
tial pride of the garrulous story-teller. He seemed 
to be gathering up the ragged edges of his mem¬ 
ory, and marshalling them in proper array to make 
an impressive story. 

“I don’t know ef I kin git de events ’zactly 


THE OWL FORETELLS A PARTING 113 


right in my min’, atter all dese years, but I thinks 
I ’members de mos’ ’portant ones. I know I ’mem¬ 
bers de day whut yo’ gran’pa dis’herited Ma’s 
Jeemes, yo’ pa, des es same ef it wus yistidy. I 
aint neber fergit dat. Yo’ gran’pa wus er good 
man, Ma’s Dan, but when he git mad he had er 
temper like de debil, en yo’ pa warn’t much better.” 

“Nor am I much better,” sighed Dan; “it is in 
the blood.” 

“Hit sholy is in de blood. En when dem two 
come tergedder it wus fiah en tow. Dey uster lead 
or Miss er awful life; hit kep’ her busy tryin’ ter 
keep down peace. Ma’s Jeemes he alius crossin’ 
01 ’ Ma’ster en er goin’ gin his wishes en Ol’ Miss 
she try ter shiel’ ’im. She could do mo’ wid ’im 
dan enybudy, but den he des like er young colt,— 
too full o’ life ter be harnessed. 

“We-alls thought that when Ma’s Jeemes 
growed up, he would be diffunt, en sho’ nuf he wus 
fer er whil’. Him en 01 ’ Ma’ster des wuk terged¬ 
der like two ol’ bosses whut done been bruk ter de 
same pole. Ol’ Ma’ster wus prouder dan Lucifer 
o’ dat boy, en when de wah bruk out, he wus proud¬ 
er den eber. He alius braggin’ ’roun’ ’bout whut 
a sojer Ma’s Jeemes wus, en when dat boy 
come home wid dem Major strops on his shoul’- 
ers, I thought 01 ’ Ma’ster gwine ter fling er fit. 


THE OWL FORETELLS A PARTING 


114 

“When de wah wus ober en Ma’s Jeemes come 
home we wus all des wiP wid joy. Dey called it 
peace when dey stop er shootin’ one ernudder, but 
it warnt no peace a-tall. 

“De kentry des went wiP en OP Ma’ster en 
Ma’s Jeemes erlong wid de res’. OP Ma’ster he des 
hated dem Yankees mo’ pintedly dan eber, en he 
cuss en he sw’ar ’bout dem carpet-baggers fu’m 
mawnin’ ’tell night. En den he swa’r ef Georgia 
ratify dat thing, whut he call a damn’ble ’mend- 
mint he gwine ter leebe de State. But Ma’s 
jeemes say dat he done fit dem Yankees de bes’ he 
could, but now dat he done come home he gwine ter 
quit flghtin’, en he pick up his bag en baggage en 
he went No’th ter some school. Dat mightneer 
kill OP Ma’ster; he say dat Ma’s Jeemes don’t 
love de Souf er he wouldn’t be goin’ ter no Yankee 
school. I tell you OP Ma’ster sho’ did hate dem 
Yankees! Ma’s Jeemes he des kep’ writin’ back 
’bout how much he lamin’, how he like, en how 
wrong it wus fer de Souf ter keep on hatin’ en er 
bearin’ malice. Dat alius make OP Ma’ster cuss 
wuss den eber. 

“Den when he done mos’' wo’ we-alls out er 
stayin’ up dar fo’ er five years, he come home en 
’low he gwinter ma’y a young ’oman, whut he done 
met up in Boston. Den de debel break loose sho’ 


THE OWL FORETELLS A PARTING 115 


’nuf. I ’dare ’fo’ God, I alnt never hear nuffen 
like or Ma’ster go on. I thought he gwine ter bus’ 
er blood vessel, en all de time Ol’ Miss er holin’ 
on ter him er beggin’ him ter hush. When at last 
she got him still, Ma’s Jeemes wus already gone, 
en dat wus de las’ we see o’ him tell he pa done 
daid. 

“De day atter Ma’s Jeemes leave, Ol’ Ma’ster 
say he gwine ter make er will en a whole passel o’ 
lawyers come ter de house, en he make er will en say 
he gwine ter cut Ma’s Jeemes off widout er penny, 
en he won’t let none o’ us mention Ma’s Jeemes 
name. 

“Dat wus de beginnin’ o’ de end wid Ol’ Ma’ster, 
do. He neber did look like he’se’f no mo’. One 
day I ’sprise him er standin’ fo’ dat picter o’ 
Ma’s Jeemes, wid dem strops on his shoul’er en 
I knowxd he des er eatin’ his heart out fer dat 
boy, but he would die ’fo’ he’d say anything,—he 
des dat stubbo’n. 

“Hit wus two er free years atter dat, dat you 
wus bawn. How come me ter ’member ’zactly 
how ’twus, mer Sam wus bawn de same year, en 
when I tole 01’ Ma’ster ’bout de baby, he ’low 
‘Mr. Jeemes is got er li’l boy too, Lige, en dey 
gwine ter call him Dan’l’. Dat wus de fus time I 
eber hear him mention Ma’s Jeemes since he 


i6 THE OWL FORETELLS A PARTING 


went erway. When I toP Celie whut he say, she 
’low she ’spec’ de han’ o’ de li’l chiP gwine ter lead 
’em. But she ’low she bleebes it wus too late, ’case 
she beer er owl at de co’ner o’ de big house de 
night befo’, en she know OP Ma’ster done been 
called. 

“Later dat day OP Ma’ster toP me ter hitch up 
de buggy en ca’y him ter town. I ca’y him ter 
Jedge Branham’s offus, en he stay mos’ all de 
ebenin’. He looked purty bad tuckeied out when 
we got home, en he toP me ter bring him er cup 
o’ coffee in de big book-room, whar he alius stay. 
When I got back wid de coffee dar set OP Ma’ster 
wid dat picter o’ Ma’s Jeemes in one hand, en 
dat big blue book he call his ‘Plutark’ on he knees. 
He gib me de book en de picter ter put up, en he 
say ‘ ’Taint no use, Lige, a man can’t cut off his 
own flesh en blood, en I done change dat will’. 
Den he took de coffee en I went back ter mer wuk. 

“When de bell ring fer supper, OP Ma’ster didn’t 
come; dey ring hit ergin, en still he didn’t come. 
Den I go ter see how come he didn’t heer dat 
bell, en dar he wus er settin’ up dar in de big cheer 
des like he wus ersleep. I walk up en tech him 
en den I see dat OP Ma’ster done got dat call. 

“In de bus’le en ’citement, I fergit all ’bout dat 
will, en whut OP Ma’ster done tell me, en hit didn’t 


THE OWL FORETELLS A PARTING 117 


come inter mer haid no mo’ in er long time. Den 
one day Ol’ Miss call us inter de big book-room 
ter beer dat will read, ’case she said 01’ Ma’ster 
done ’membered us all. Ma’s Jeemies wus dar 
wid his haid up, des like I had seed him lots o’ 
times es he went inter er battle, ’cep’ he look mo’ 
white en ser’ous. I stood dar en listened as dey read 
dat will, not takin’ in de sense o’ hit a-tall. I heer ’em 
read: ‘Ter my ’loved wife Sary Herndon I ’queath 
dis, dat en de yuther, den he ’membered us all; but 
when it wus all ober I see dat dey done read he 
wrong will, ’case Ma’s Jeemes aint been men¬ 
tioned. 

“Den I up en say: ‘01’ Miss, you done read 
de wrong will. Fo’ God, you done read de wrong 
will!’ or Miss she des look white en skeered, 
en ’low: ‘Whut you mean, Lige?’ Den I tole ’em 
’bout how or Ma’ster done made er new will de 
day I foun’ ’im settin’ dar daid in his cheer. 

“Den dey go ter lookin’ fer dat will like er house 
er fiah. Hit wus er long time fo’ we foun’ hit. I 
went mos’ ’stracted tryin’ ter ’member whar I see 
or Ma’ster put dat will, dat day when I brung him 
de coffee inter de big book-room. Den at las’ hit des 
slip inter mer min’ des es easy, like er name you 
been tryin’ ter ’member, des like it been dar all de 
time. Dat’s des de way I ’membered ’bout dat 


ii8 THE OWL FORETELLS A PARTING 


Plutark book. En sho nuf, when Ma’s Jeemes 
tuk it down, dar it wus des like Jedge Branham 
done writ it out, en put de big seals on. 

“Ma’s Jeemes wus so happy he neer ’bout wil’, 
’case he sho’ did set a heap o’ sto’ by 01’ Ma’ster. 
En he wus moughty proud dat he pa done 
furgib ’im fo’ he die. He can’t hep’ de way he 
alius cross ’im; he des er chip often de ole block. 
En I spec’ you is er ’nuther.” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” laughed Dan, “and 
after all I am glad that I am.” 

“To be sho’, you is,” answered Uncle Lige. “I 
des been tellin’ Celie how you make me think o’ 
or Ma’ster dat day down ter de Mayor’s Co’t.” 

They both laughed at the evidently pleasant ex¬ 
perience. 

The door opened, and Miss Bennett came in. 

“The will is ready,” she said with a smile. 

“Thank you. Miss,” Uncle Lige made an obse- 
quous bow. “Thank you, ma’m, I wus des tellin’ 
Ma’s Dan whut a smart ’oman I though you 
wus ter know des ’zactly how I wanted dat will 
fixed up, des so it will please Celie, en he low dat 
you alius understan’. I moughty glad dat Ma’s 
Dan done got somebudy ter take keer o’ him des 
like Celie take keer o’ me, all dese years.” 

A blush spread over Miss Bennett’s delicate 


THE OWL FORETELLS A PARTING 119 


little face, but her laughing gray eyes met Dan’s 
with a candor and camaraderie that he found dis¬ 
concerting. 

“I will look after his office the best I can,” she 
said, as Uncle Lige bowed himself out, hat in hand. 

“Why the emphasis on the office, Nell?” Dan 
came close and was standing over her, his face 
grown tender. “Why not take care of me always, 
dear? Come, we have been such good old pals, 
tell me there need never be ‘a’ ’partment.’ ” 

“No,” Nell laughed softly as she slipped into 
his out-stretched arms, “no, just an apartment, 
Dan. I know where we can get a lovely one.” 


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jNT Capline say dar ain’t no haint en no sperit 



^ in dis heah worl’.” 

Nehemiah rolled over on the kitchen floor in 
front of the cozy fire and smiled sardonically up 
into the face of the little white boy, aged ten, who 
was trying to frighten him with tales of blood and 
thunder. 

“But I can show you the headless horseman in 
my book,” insisted Dan. “What about that, Nemi? 
How would you like to meet a horseman carrying 
his head in his lap?” 

“Aunt Ca’line say,” Nemi began, but the kitchen 
door creaked on its hinges and he sat up with a 
groan. 

“O Lordy,” he gasped, “I thought sumpen had 


me. 


“Shet up, Nehemiah,” growled Aunt Caroline, 
as she took her cook apron from the nail behind 
the kitchen door and began her preparations for 
making a fire. “You’s ’bout de bigges’ coward I 
cber see, en you mos’ fo’teen. Aint you neber 
gwine ter hah no sense? You des let dat boy poke 
fun at you tellin’ tales out o’ some ol’ story book. 


123 


124 


THE COWARD 


You git up frum dar en bring me de stove wood 
fer to cook dis supper.” 

For a moment Nemi stood in the doorway look¬ 
ing with dread out into the darkness. The light 
from the kitchen fire projected a path of gold to 
the wood-pile, but on its edges lurked dark, fan¬ 
tastic, dancing figures that made his flesh creep, 
despite the fact that he had just been insisting that 
there were “no haints en no sperits.” 

“Go wid me, Dan,” he pleaded, “en I’ll make 
you er spool dancer atter supper.” 

“I thought you weren’t afraid,” taunted Dan, 
but good naturedly got up and went with his little 
play-fellow. 

“Uncle Josh told me,” said Dan, as he picked 
up the wood, “that one night as he came through 
Pine Pitch—” 

“Oh, please hush,” said Nemi, whose teeth were 
chattering, “whut you alius want ter skeer folks 
fer? Anyway, Aunt Ca’line—” 

“Look-ee!” said Dan in a stage whisper, as a 
white calf sauntered slowly across the barn lot into 
the line of mellow light from the kitchen fire. 

Nemi dropped his wood and with a whoop liter¬ 
ally fell into the kitchen door, mumbling: 

“Sumpen white atter me. Aunt Ca’line, sumpen 
white atter me,” while Dan followed convulsed 
with laughter. 


THE COWARD 


25 


“lou otter be ’shamed o’ yo’se’f,” scolded Aunt 
Caroline, as Dan entered. “Dat nigger is des er 
fool en he can’t he’p bein’ er coward. Now, des 
fer dat I gwine ter make you bring dat wood whilst 
Nemi sets de table.” 

Nemi began his task of setting the table, 
whistling gaily, while Dan turned back into the 
yard with a look of chagrin on his manly face. It 
did not occur to him to disobey the command of 
Aunt Caroline, who had been his nurse when he 
was a baby and now nursed the little golden-haired 
elf, whom he called “Little Sister” and whom Nemi 
called “Li’l Missy.” 

“Whut fur make you sich er coward, Nehe- 
miah?” Aunt Caroline began again to lecture Nemi 
on his cowardice, when the dining room door 
opened and Mrs. Graham, her young mistress, 
stood in the doorway with a white set face. 

“Aunt Caroline,” she began in a frightened 
voice. Aunt Caroline, come quick—” 

“Whut’s dat, honey? You looks mos’ es skeered 
cs dat pesky Nehemiah. Is you seen one o’ dem 
dar ghoses whut Dan is alius talkin’ erbout ter skeer 
dat nigger ashy?” 

“It’s the baby—she’s sick,” answered Mrs. Gra¬ 
ham, desperately sick; come quick.” 

She turned and ran back up the stairway. The 


126 


THE COWARD 


old negro followed, leaving the boys awed into 
silence. 

“Whut ef she wuster die?” said Nemi, at last, 
in a sepulchral whisper. 

“Don’t you say that.” Dan stood up, his face 
gone white. “I could not stand it, and I won’t let 
you say it.” 

He stood silent a moment, then he put his hand 
out and touched the little negro boy gently on the 
arm. 

“I am sorry I scared you Nemi,” he said, “I did 
not know how it felt to be frightened, until you 
frightened me so then. But Dr. Harris won’t let 
Little Sister d—he won’t let anything happen to 
her.” 

“Yeah,” said Nemi, “Miss Embly gwine ter call 
Dr. Harris; he gwine ter come, en in de mawnin’ 
Li’l Missy gwine ter be—” 

At that moment the distracted voice of his mis¬ 
tress came down the hall. She was calling the 
doctor. 

“Central,” she begged, “give me 568. I want 
Dr. Harris—-quick Central, I want—” 

Then he heard her drop the receiver back on the 
hook with a sob. 

‘*0 God, the line’s dead!” she whimpered. 

“Now, whut we gwine ter do?” Nemi faced Dan, 


THE COWARD 


127 


but Dan’s white face gave him no hope. He 
turned and ran to his mistress. 

“Whar Ma’s Dan, Miss Embly?” 

“He is in Rome,” she groaned. “He can not be 
reached; the wires are dead. There is not a tel¬ 
ephone in working order in ten miles, and it’s 
fifteen to a doctor. O, Nemi, I wish you were a 
man.” 

“But I aint. Miss Embly, I’s des er boy—er li’l 
boy—en—er coward,” he ended humbly. Then he 
added: 

“Could Dr. Harris sabe Li’l Missy?” 

“Yes, yes. I know he could if—but now. Aunt 
Caroline and I must try.” 

Mrs. Graham turned with a stricken face and 
hurried back up the stairway. 

Nemi stood looking after her in silence for a 
minute. Then, he reached down, took his ragged 
little cap up from the kitchen floor and stumbled 
out into the darkness. 

It was November and a slow cold rain had been 
falling all day. The rain had ceased at dark, but 
the fog was so heavy that one could scarcely see 
ten paces ahead. Nemi’s teeth chattered as he 
groped his way to the barn and to the stable of 
the little mare that Mr. Graham had bought the 
summer before and which Dan and Nemi had ap- 


128 


THE COWARD 


propriated to their own use, and for their amuse¬ 
ment had taught her as many tricks as a circus 
pony. She was long, lean and lank; her mane and 
tail were shaggy, but she had the legs of a pacer 
and Nemi knew that she could race the wind. 

“Come heah, Dixie,” he coaxed, as he stood in 
the stable door with the bridle in his hands. “Come 
heah, ’case me en you’s gwin fer de doctor fer Li’l 
Missy. Hit’s er long dark ride, ol’ gal, but I’s got 
dat rabbit foot whut Unc’ Josh done gib me.” 

“Co’s’ I’s skeered,” he muttered as he buckled 
the saddle girth with trembling fingers. “Co’s’ I’s 
skeered, but it aint like Li’l Missy didn’t need us. 
I’d go ter ride wid de haidless hoss’man hese’f, ef hit 
wus fer Li’l Missy.” 

The boy talked, rapidly, nervously to himself to 
keep up his courage, as he led the little mare to 
the gate, mounted and turned her head south, to¬ 
ward Rome, fifteen miles away—fifteen miles of 
slush, mud darkness and horror. But at the end 
of the road would be Dr. Harris and life for “Li’l 
Missy.” Gritting his teeth, Nemi bent forward 
until his face almost touched the neck of the mare 
and rode like one possessed.' 

“Go on, Dixie,” he coaxed, caressing the long 
thin neck with trembling fingers. “Go on, 01’ 
Hoss, we’s gwine atter de doctor fer Li’l Missy. 


THE COWARD 


29 


We would do anything fer Li’l Missy, wouldn’t we 
Dixie?” 

Thus he talked on and on, hardly knowing what 
he said, while he rode as one who races with death. 
Often his eyes were closed. He gave the mare her 
head feeling that she knew the road, and he was 
thankful that he might thus shut out the fantastic 
shapes that he felt lurked behind each shadow. 
Mile after mile of muddy road was passed, while 
he still muttered words of encouragement to his 
steed. 

“Hit’s ’bout time we wus cornin’ ter dat bridge, 
en dat’ll be ha’f way. I sholy would hate ter meet 
dat haidless hoss’man whut Dan’s alius mouthin’ 
’bout. But den ef he sho’ nuff haidless, he mought 
neber see me en you, Dixie.” He laughed mirth¬ 
lessly. “But den how we gwine ter see dat bridge?” 

For a moment his soul was immersed in a new 
wave of fear. Demon voices whispered that he 
had better go back. 

The covered bridge had just been erected over 
the Etowah, and when Nemi had crossed it in the 
day time, accompanied by Uncle Josh, it had 
seemed to him a convenient place for spirits to 
loiter. Tonight, the very thought of its murky 
darkness turned his blood to ice. He had chosen 
the bridge rather than the ferry a mile below, be- 


130 


THE COWARD 


cause he knew the river to be too high for the flat 
to be used in safety. But, now, he almost wished 
he had chosen a certain danger to the ones his fer¬ 
tile imagination was calling up. 

“Li’l Missy need us, Dixie,” he muttered more 
for the encouragement of himself than for the 
horse. “We—O Lordy! whut’s dat?” 

A sudden light loomed in the distance and the 
whistle of a boat sent the chills of horror down 
his spine. The next instant he realized that it was 
a tug-boat and that he was in reality nearing the 
bridge. 

A hundred paces further and he could discern 
the dim outlines of Hampton’s Bridge. Leaning 
forward until he was almost prone upon the mare’s 
neck he urged her to greater speed. The horse’s 
breath came fast; his own in gasps, and the beat 
of his heart almost rivaled the dull thud of the 
horse’s feet upon the muddy road. 

Suddenly Dixie stretched her long thin neck, 
gave a nervous forward leap and with a stiffening 
of every muscle, came to a dead halt with her fore 
feet planted upon the bridge. In vain Nemi 
begged, plead and coaxed. 

“Go on, Dixie, Ol’ Hoss! Please go on.” 

Then, he became frantic and beat his rough-shod 
little heels against her lean flanks, while he lashed 
impotently with the reins. 


THE COWARD 


131 

“I gwine ter kill you, er make you go,” he raved: 
“whut you take me fer, a quitter? I started atter 
de doctor fer Li’l Missy, en I gwine.” 

Slowly the meaning of what had happened 
dawned upon him. The spirit of the horse seemed 
to communicate with the spirit of the boy and his 
little black arms went around her neck impulsively. 

“Po’ li’l critter,” he crooned, “po’ li’l critter, you 
des skeered, dat’s whut’s de matter wid you. You’s 
des es skeered er dat bridge es I is o’ de ghos’es in 
the dark, de haidless hoss’man, en de ’oman in white 
dat moves widout no feet. You’s des er plain cow¬ 
ard, but den you aint got no sense fer ter tell you 
dat; you’s got ter go, skeered er no skeered, when 
Li’l Missy need you. I’s sorry fer you, but you 
des got ter go. Please come on.” He patted the 
mare’s neck and crooned softly. 

Suddenly Nemi began to have a strange new 
fear, more terrible than any he had before. He 
began to be afraid that after all he was going to 
fail; that Dr. Harris was not going to be reached 
and that Li’l Missy would die. For the first time 
that night the hot tears came and dripped down 
the little black face, while he sobbed brokenly, talk¬ 
ing to himself, to Dixie and sometimes to God. 

“Please, God,” he muttered, “you know Li’l 
Missy—she looks des like er engel, God. En you 


132 


THE COWARD 


knows Miss Embly en Ma’s Dan, en Li’l Dan, en 
you knows Aunt Ca’line en me, en you knows des 
how we-alls feel ’bout Li’l Missy. We des couldn’t 
lib widout dat chil’, en you mustn’t let me fail now. 
God, you knows whut a coward I is, en you knows 
whut I done suffer ternight, er tryin’ ter sabe Li’l 
Missy, how I done dare de dark, en de ghos’es, en 
de sperits whut creep in de night, all ’case I love 
Li’l Missy so, so please God, make dis damn boss’ 

But God turned a deaf ear, and still Dixie stood 
with her feet planted stolidly before her for ten, 
twenty, thirty minutes, which seemed like an eter¬ 
nity to the wailing little negro. 

Slowly it dawned upon Nemi that he was beaten; 
that to stand begging Dixie to move was wasting 
time, and that God helps those who help them¬ 
selves. 

When this thought broke upon him, he wiped 
his eyes upon his sleeves, took up the reins and 
slowly turned Dixie’s head toward the ferry a mile 
t)elow. 

'‘De riber’s too high fer to be safe crossin’ on 
dat flat,” he muttered, “but who’s lookin’ fer safety 
ternight? I gwine ter cross dat riber wid dis boss’ 
er bus’.” 

That Dixie might fear the flat even more than 


THE COWARD 


133 


she had feared the bridge and again balk did not 
enter Nemi’s optimistic mind. In fact, he knew 
from experience that the little mare had no fear 
of water, but young as he was he knew that to steer 
a flat-boat across the Etowah, when the river ran 
high was no child’s play. 

True to his fears the river ran black and turbid 
between the points of highest water mark. The 
clouds had begun to lift and here and there the 
stars broke through the clouds and showed the old 
flat, already lifted from its mooring, straining 
heavily at the cable. Nemi waded into the muddy 
eddy and, with the inconsistency of a balking horse, 
Dixie meekly followed, lifting her feet gingerly 
with each step until they were planted safely 
upon the flat, that rocked crazily at the first contact 
of the horse’s feet, then righted itself as Nemi un¬ 
tied the anchor, as he had often seen his master do 
in the absence of the ferryman. 

Grim determination steadied Nemi’s hand as he 
began to operate the steering lever that controlled 
the wheel upon the cable. His heart gave a sudden 
throb, then stood still with fright as he felt the 
line tighten, as the wheel began to crawl down the 
cable with the force of the current, which was send¬ 
ing the flat down stream with such force that the 
cable grew taut. With eyes wide and strained he 


134 


THE COWARD 


watched the wheel spin madly upon the cable, 
while he operated the steering lever in a feeble ef¬ 
fort to slacken the strain. 

As they came into mid-current, the faint star 
light that was steadily increasing made it possible 
for him to see that the current was full of rubbish; 
brush that had been swept from its moorings, and 
logs that had been lifted from rafts laden for 
shipping. With his hand still upon the lever, he 
dropped upon his knees and watched in fascina¬ 
tion an immense pine log that was headed toward 
him, the swiftness of the current spinning it around 
like a top thrown from a taut cord. 

“O God A’mighty,” he groaned, “I gwine ter be 
kilt now fer sho’, en I aint gwine ter git de doctor 
fer ter sabe Li’l Missy. I wish I hadn’t sassed Aunt 
Car’line,” he added with dry lips, “ner stole nuffen 
frum dat pantry, but ef Li’l Missy do die, I know 
she’ll ax God fer ter let me into Heben.” 

Nemi let go of the lever, shut his eyes and 
dropped upon his face, as the huge log struck the 
flat with such force that the cable was broken. For 
a moment the flat spun rapidly in mid stream, while* 
the brown water immersed the little figure lying 
prone on its face, at the feet of his little mare, then 
it righted itself and went spinning madly down 
stream. 


THE COWARD 


135 


Nemi lost consciousness, from the shock, for a 
period that he was never able to calculate. When 
he did open his eyes, the clouds had lifted; a full 
moon shone down upon him and the flat had mirac¬ 
ulously come to anchor. 

He lay for a moment looking idly up at the sky, 
watching the clouds drift in fantastic shapes across 
the face of the moon, as he often did through the 
window of Aunt Caroline’s cabin. Then, he sat up 
slowly, rubbed his eyes and looked about him in 
bewilderment. The noise of the switch engines, the 
loud voices of the train crew and the whir of big 
machinery in the distance told him that he had 
come to anchor within the city of Rome. 

With a sob of thankfulness he jumped to his 
feet, threw his arms about the neck of Dixie, as 
she stood shivering and frightened in the center 
of the flat. 

“Bless God, 01’ Hoss’, we gwine ter git de doctor 
atter all.” 

Nemi led the shivering little mare up the steep 
incline of the bank, tied her to a clump of bushes that 
shielded her from the wind, and turning ran up 
the street, his clothes clinging fantastically to his 
angular little frame. 

Half a block away, he ran into a night watch¬ 


man. 


136 


THE COWARD 


“Take me ter Dr. Harris, quick,” he sobbed, “Li’l 
Missy is dyin’ en Miss Embly say he kin sabe 
her.” 

There was something in the boy’s face that car¬ 
ried conviction. The watchman knew that it was no 
small errand upon which he had been sent, and 
lent him what aid he could in locating Dr. Harris 
and Mr. Graham. 

Twenty minutes later. Dr. Harris and Dan 
Graham were speeding north along Summerville 
Pike, with splendid disregard for all speed laws, 
while in the foot of the car, wrapped in a lap-rohe, 
crouched Nemi, his head leaning against Dan Gra¬ 
ham’s knee. 

The faithful little horse was temporarily left 
behind in good hands. 

When they reached home, Mr. Graham bounded 
out of the car and hurried up the walk with Dr. 
Harris and Nemi close beside him. 

“She is better, the baby is saved,” Mrs. Graham 
cried, as she opened the door to them and fell upon 
her husband’s breast. 

“Aunt Caroline saved her, Dan,” she whispered 
as she bent over Aunt Caroline, who sat crooning 
softly, with the sleeping baby on her knees. 

“I knowed I had ter,” answered Aunt Caroline 


THE COWARD 


137 


with great unction. “Dar warn’t nobudy ter he’p 
but dat coward Nehemiah, en I tol’—” 

“Stop,” said Mr. Graham, solemnly, as he 
reached out and pulled Nemi, who was still 
wrapped in the lap-robe, half asleep, into the line 
of Aunt Caroline’s vision. 

“Don’t you ever call this boy a coward again. 
He has shown more bravery and heroism tonight 
than I have ever known a boy to show. I hope my 
own son may grow up as brave.” 

“I aint afeered o’ ghos’es no mo’,” said Nemi 
sleepily. 

“Nor of anything else,” said Mr. Graham, as 
his hand went out and rested upon the wooly head 
with the tenderness of a benediction. 




MISS JULIE’S RING 



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MISS JULIE’S RING 

RANNY, ’whar’d Shelly git dat li’l ring wid 
de blue stun in hit?” 

Aunt Delphy laid down the knife with which she 
was peeling potatoes, and looked up at her small 
grandson standing in the kitchen doorway. 

“Huh, whut dat, Booker? You chillun is alius 
a pesterin’ me. Whar you reckin she git er ring 
wid er blue stun in hit? Dat gal’s des foolin’ you, 
makin’ like she got sumpen, when she aint.” 

“But she got hit dis time, sho’ nuff.” Booker 
dropped down in the door. “She got hit on her fin¬ 
ger right now. I boun’ she stole hit.” 

“Hi! Whut’sdat? You bet she stole hit? Well, 
I bet she better not steal nuffen. I’s libed mos’ er 
hund’ed years, en I aint gwine ter be disgraced, now, 
by no ’count gran’chillun takin’ whut don’ b’long 
rer ’em. Whar dat gal?” 

Aunt Delphy got up and stood looking toward 
the servant house in the back of the yard. 

“Hi dar, Balshazar!” 

A fourteen-year-old girl appeared in the door¬ 
way, singing lustily: 

“Fiah in de east, 

Fiah in de west, 

Fiah done burn up de wilderness!” 


41 


42 


MISS JULIE’S RING 


“Stop dat noise en come heah, gal.’’ 

The girl came slowly across the yard, still 
singing: 

“Fiah in de east . 

“Shet up!” snapped Aunt Delphy. “I gwine ter 
make you think fiah in de east. Whar did you git 
enny ring wid er blue stun in hit?” 

“Who said I had er ring?” asked Shelly sul¬ 
lenly. 

“I did,” said the boy impudently putting his 
tongue out at his sister. “I tol’ you yestidy dat ef 
you didn’t gib me some er dat cake whut Miss 
Julie gib you, I gwine ter tell Granny ’bout dat 
ring. I boun’ yo’ hide won’t hoi’ shucks when 
Granny git froo wid you, ’case I know you stole 
hit.” 

“I didn’t neder,” said the girl angrily. “Miss 
Julie gib hit ter me.” , 

“Aint you shame yo’se’f? You gwine ter bring 
yo’ ole Granny’s haid in sorrer ter de grabe, yit, 
you lim’ o’ Satan. I done lib right heah eber since 
Miss Julie’s pa wus er li’l boy, trus’ed by de whole 
fambly. I done raised my own chillun right dar 
in dat same li’l house, en not er rogue ermong 
’em, en heah you come erlong when I mos’ daid, 
en begin ter steal en ter lie. Let me see dat ring, 
nigger!” 


MISS JULIE’S RING 


143 


Shelly put out her hand. On her finger gleamed 
a circlet and in the center of a heart of beaten 
gold, shone an opal of rare value. 

Aunt Delphy sank back in her chair, her face 
working with emotion. 

“God A’mighty, gal, dat’s mer young Miss’ 
ring I Let me have hit quick!” 

The girl sullenly took the ring from her finger 
and laid it in the old woman’s hand. 

“I boun’ Miss Julie don’t know de hist’ry o’ dis 
ring,” said Aunt Delphy, forgetting her anger in 
the pleasant prospect of a new story to tell. “I 
gwine ter tell her right now.” 

She got up, took off her cook apron and went 
slowly toward the front of the house, muttering to 
herself as she went: 

“Dat’s des de way o’ young folks. Dey don’t 
neber take keer o’ nuffen. I boun’ when I tell Miss 
Julie dat dis ring got dis li’l scar on hit in de battle 
o’ Gittesbu’g, she make er turrible miration. Den 
I reckin she wont be leebin’ it erround fer no ’count 
niggers ter steal.” 

Miss Julia Anderson looked up from her book 
with a smile, as the old woman appeared, flustered 
and out of breath. “What is it. Aunt Delphy?” she 
asked kindly. 

Aunt Delphy sank heavily upon the steps of the 
broad veranda. 


144 


MISS JULIE’S RING 


“Is dat yo’ ring, honey?” She held the ring 
toward her young mistress with a hand that 
shook. 

“Oh!” cried Miss Julia eagerly. “Aunt Julia’s 
ring—I thought I had lost it. I am so glad, Aunt 
Delphy,—so glad, for I love it—and I thought it 
was gone.” 

“Did you know dat ring got er hist’ry, honey?” 

“No,” answered Miss Julia, “only that it be¬ 
longed to my Aunt Julia, who died young and for 
whom I am named. Tell me,” she added. 

She knew from experience that most things con¬ 
nected with the Anderson family, did have a his¬ 
tory from Aunt Delphy’s viewpoint. She also 
knew, from experience, that there was often a 
grain of wheat amid the chaff of Aunt Delphy’s 
stories, and she had learned from them some 
events of family history, which her busy mother 
had never found time to tell her. She always lis¬ 
tened eagerly to any story that Aunt Delphy had 
to tell her. 

Aunt Delphy, now sat swelling with pride. The 
feast of memories that stretched out before her, 
and the glamour and romance of the old days that 
flooded her emotive memory was almost worth the 
price of having taken Shelly in her sin. 

“You see dat li’l bruised place on de side o’ dat 


MISS JULIE’S RING 


145 


ring?” she began at last. “Well, hit got dat scar at 
de battle o’ Gittesbu’g, when hit wus in Ma’s Phil’s 
Carlton’s pocket. How come hit in Ma’s Phil’s 
pocket? Well, I’s cornin’ ter dat, honey. You sec 
Ma’s Phil en Miss Julie—who wus yo’ Aunt 
Julie—wus sweethearts des like you en dat boy 
whut put dat ring on yo’ finger.” She looked at the 
solitaire that gleamed on Julia’s finger, and 
chuckled knowingly. “But he can’t come en take 
her on no long rides on de long summer days. En 
he can’t come en stan’ in de moonlight en talk 
sweet ter her, ’case Ma’s Billy done say dat Phil 
Carlton can’t come ter see no gal o’ his’n. Didn’t 
you neber heah ’bout dat, honey?” 

Miss Julia assured her that she had not, and 
begged her to go on with the story. 

“Well, honey, when Miss Julie wus young, she 
look des like you. I wus tellin’ Sabry yestidy, 
when I see you go ’cross de yawd, how much you 
look like yo’ Aunt Julie.” 

The girl smiled at the incongruity of the compar¬ 
ison. She knew enough family history to know that 
her Aunt had been tall, lithe, and a striking brunette, 
while she was petite and a blonde. These old 
ante-bellum relics, however, claim a sort of poetic 
license in their stories, and can not be hampered 
by too true a realism. So the girl did not demur. 


MISS JULIE’S RING 


146 

“Miss Julie sholy wus fine, en she wus de prut- 
tiest gal in dis whole kentry, dat’s whut she wus. 
All de young gen’men pay dey ’spects ter her, but 
she don’t keer nuffen erbout none o’ dem, lessen it 
wur Ma’s Phil. She en Ma’s Phil dey des sorter 
growed up togedder, dem bein’ nabers. Ma’s Phil 
wus alius ober ter we-alls house when dey wus li’l. 
En when dey growed up ’twarnt much diffunt. 

“My, don’t I ’member de time when Miss Julie 
come ter mer li’l house en tell me a mighty big se¬ 
cret, des like I aint done seed it long ago? I 
done see de love-light in her eyes when Ma’s Phil 
come. I ’spect I knowed it mos’ ’fo’ she did, ’case 
I sho’ did watch dat chil’, since she didn’t have no 
ma, but I ’ten’ like I moughty bad ’sprised, en Miss 
Julie went back ter de house wid her face shinin’ 
en singin’ des like her heart would split wid joy. 

“Dat night dey had moughty big jolification up 
ter de big house, en dey dance till mos’ day. Dat 
wus de fus’ time Miss Julie eber let on fo’ de uthers 
dat she ’fer Ma’s Phil, but she did dat night, mos’ 
pintedly. She danced wid him mos’ ev’ry time, 
’case she done ’gaged ter him now. 

“Dat wus all fo’ Ma’s Billy en Mr. Carlton fall 
out. I don’t know ’zactly whut dey fall out erbout, 
but I thinks it wus sumpen ’bout de wah. Ma’s 
Billy he faber de wah, en Mr. Carlton, Ma’s 


MISS JULIE’S RING 


147 


Phil’s pa, he don’t want no wah, en wld all de ’sput- 
in’ bout hit, dey mos’ hed one deyse’ves. Dey des 
kep’ argufyin’ ’till dey most hed er duel,—Ma’s 
Phil he kep’ ’em f’um it somehow, but den Ma’s 
Billy he up en ’low dat Miss Julie got ter gib Ma’s 
Phil up. Dat he warn’t gwinter hah no rank abo- 
lishoner in his fambly. 

“Co’se dat mos’ bruk Miss Julie’s heart. She 
cry when she gib me de letter whut say Ma’s Phil 
can’t come no mo’. When I gib Ma’s Phil dat 
letter, honey, he des look sick en white en say he 
don’t want ter lib no mo’. Den he say he gwine ter 
de wah. Dey done ’cide ter hab dat wah, des like 
Ma’s Billy say dey would, but I didn’t tell Miss 
Julie whut he say ’bout de wah, ’case I didn’t want 
ter hu’t her no mo’. 

“By en by, de time come fer ’em ter go ter dc 
wah, sho’ nuf. We didn’t know whut it meant den, 
honey. But we knowed fo’ dey come back. Hit 
meant truble, bloodshed en def; dat wus whut hit 
meant ter our folks, honey. Hit sho’ did! 

“Den one day when I wus gwine by de house, 
Ma’s Phil call me by en gib me dat li’l ring, wid 
de li’l blue stun in hit, en he tell me ter gib hit ter 
Miss Julie en tell her ter w’ar hit when she come ter 
tell de sojers goodbye, ef she gwine ter wait fer him. 
When Miss Julie slip dat ring on her han’, honey. 


MISS JULIE’S RING 


uS 

she smile so sweet dat I know she gwine ter wait fer 
Ma’s Phil, ef she hab ter wait ’tell jedgmint 
day. 

“Dat ebenin’ when Miss Em’ly Gray come ober, 
Miss Julie got de ring en sho’ hit ter Miss Em’ly 
Miss Em’ly call hit ‘exquigit,’ en er lot mo’ big wuds 
whut aint got no feelin’ in ’em, en den she ’low dat 
de li’l stun gwine ter bring bad luck. Miss Julie des 
laf. She didn’t b’lebe no ring whut Ma’s Phil 
gib her gwine ter bring bad luck.” 

The old woman sat silent, a moment looking in¬ 
to the distance with somber eyes. 

“Hit didn’t neder,” she added at length, morosely. 
“Hit waren’t de ring whut brung bad luck, hit wus 
de thick haid of this nigger whut’s talkin’ ter you, 
honey, dat cos’ de truble.” 

“What did you do. Aunt Delphy?” the young 
girl asked softly. “I’m sure you meant to be kind.” 

“Deed, I did, honey. But it wus like dis: On 
de mawnin’ when de sojers wus gwine erway, Ma’s 
Billy sont me ober ter Miss Grey’s wid er basket 
o' fresh vegertabers, outen de garden. I slip up 
ter Miss Julie’s room fo’ I go en ax her ef she 
want me ter tell Ma’s Phil eny thing, ’case I hed 
ter go right by his do’. De po’ chil’ was still in 
de baid. Her li’l hands wus hot, en her eyes red 
like she done been cryin’ all night. When I ax her 


MISS JULIE’S RING 


149 


ef she want ter send Ma’s Phil any wud, she des 
pint ter de table en say: ‘Take Phil dat en tell him 
I can’t weah de ring—’case Father—’ but she neber 
did finish. She des turn her haid ter de wall en 
cry like her po’ li’l heart gwine ter bre’k. Den I 
went ter de table whar dat va’y li’l ring whut you 
got wus lyin’ side o’ er letter. I took de ring, but 
lef’ de letter, ’case I didn’t know who dat wus to. 

“When I gib dat ring ter Ma’s Phil en tell 
Jiim she say she can’t weah hit ’case o’ sumpen 
’bout her pa, his face went white en look des like 
er grabe-stun, so hard like. Den I tol’ ’im whut 
Miss Em’ly say ’bout dat li’l blue stun gwine ter 
bring bad luck. He laf, but dar warnt no fun in 
his laf, ner in his eyes neder. He des drap de ring 
in his pocket, en ’low he hope ’twould be bad luck 
ernuf ter bring er bullet dar de fus’ place. Den 
he got on his boss en rode erway. , 

“I went back ter Miss Julie, en she met me ’way 
down de lane lookin’ skeered en white en ’low: 
‘Mammy, I can’t find my ring—and why didn’t 
you take Phil the letter?’ 

“Den I knowed I hed fixed things honey, en I 
sot right down en begun ter moan en ter rastle 
wid de Lawd ter fix things right. But eben de 
Lawd, can’t fix things right, honey, when you done 
gone an’ done ’em wrong. En Ma’s Phil done rode 



“Ma’s Phil W21S c/ivine ter de Ian’ ichar dey don’t gib no 
fui'lo’s.” 


AtA. 


**>*• 























































MISS JULIE’S RING 


151 

erway ter de wah, widout waitin’ fer ter say good- 
by ter eny budy, en he wus ca’yin’ wid him, in his 
bres’ pocket dat li’l ring wid de blue stun in hit, 
sayin’ he hoped hit would bring de bullet dah fus’ 
place.” 

The old woman paused, and the young girl 
looked up through eyes that were not clear, to sec 
two great tears running down the rugged old black 
face. Finally, Aunt Delphy controlled herself and 
went on. 

“Dem wus tur’ble times, honey, tur’ble times. De 
wimin wus lef’ ter wait fer de men whut moughten’t 
come back. En all dis time Miss Julie went er- 
round lookin’ des like er ghos’ o’ de Miss Julie 
whut uster be. She don’t sing no mo’, en she look 
so thin en white hit des make mer heart sick fer ter 
see her. But de po’ chil’ aint got nobudy ter see 
how she greebe but des me. Her ma done daid, 
en do’ Ma’s Billy set a heap o’ sto’ by dat chil’, 
he wus des blin’ es er bat, en all de time he des 
set dah er readin’ en er readin’ erbout dat wah, 
while Miss Julie des kep’ er droopin’ like her flower 
dat wus wiltin’. 

“I can’t ’member how long de wah been goin’ 
on—you don’t know much ’bout time, when things 
like dat happenin’—when Ma’s Billy come in 
one night en say dat Phil Carlton done been brung 


152 


.MISS JULIE’S RUNG 


home wounded. I looked up at Miss Julie en I 
see she wus hol’in’ on ter a cheer, en I knowed she 
couldn’t speak. 

“Dat night she slip outen de house en come ter 
mer cabin en tell me she want me ter go wid her 
ter see Ma’s Phil. When we got dah, Miss 
Carlton she des cry en say she glad Miss Julie 
come, ’case Ma’s Phil done been callin’ fer her all 
day, en dat Ma’s Phil didn’t hab long fer ter stay in 
dis work. Den Miss Julie she slipped inter de room 
whar Ma’s Phil lay, en I went inter de kitchen ter 
wait fer her. I neber did know how long she 
stay, ’case I done fell ersleep dar fo’ de kitchen 
fiah, en wus dreamin’ ’bout dat li’l ring whut had 
been bad luck ernuf ter bring er bullet right whar 
Ma’s Phil say he hoped hit would. 

“At last, when Miss Julie come, she hed on dat 
ring, en I knowed she hed done promised ter wait 
fer Ma’s Phil. I thought she would hev ter wait 
er long time, ’case Ma’s Phil wus gwine ter de Ian’ 
whar dey don’t gib no furlo’s. 

“Hit warn’t so long atter all; fer when Ma’s 
Phil die, Miss Julie she dus kep’ er fadin’ en er 
fadin’ en I knowed hit warnt no consumption like 
de doctors say, but des grief fer Ma’s Phil. I 
tol’ John she gwinter go meet him, en she did. Dat 
wus de year Ma’s Henry come home widout his 


MISS JULIE’S RING 


153 


awm, en Ma’s Thomas he stay fer alius—right 
dar on de battle field. Dem wus turble times hon¬ 
ey, turble times. But I didn’t grebe fer Miss 
Julie, ’case she wusn’t made fer dis worl’, en John 
he ’low, dat when folks love like Ma’s Phil en 
Miss Julie dat it wus made up to ’em up dah.” 

The old voice quavered, broke, then trailed oil 
into a whisper. 

“It’s made up—to ’em—up—dah.” 

The young girl’s right hand involuntarily sought 
the left, where the solitaire gleamed, and she 
laughed, brokenly, sobbingly: 

“I shall treasure the little ring more than ever 
now.” She held it up to the window and watched 
the sunlight gleaming on the opal. “And to think 
I had lost it. Where did you find it, Aunt Del- 
phy ?” 

‘Belshazar had hit,” answered Aunt Delphy 
noncommittally. 

If Miss Julie saw anything suspicious in the fact 
that Shelly had the ring, she ignored it. 

“Tell Shelly I appreciate her finding it,” she said 
simply, “and I give her this little pin as a token of 
my gratitude.” She took a little crescent pin from 
her collar and held it toward the old woman, with 
a smile. 

Aunt Delphy hesitated a moment, then took the 


154 


iVIISS JULIE’S RUNG 


pin. The glamour of the old days faded from her 
mind, and she came painfully back to the present 
and a realization of what Shelly had done. A 
double-dyed sin, in her mind, since she had dese¬ 
crated the ring with a “hist’ry”, but her pride 
made it hard for her to tell Miss Julia that her 
granddaughter had really stolen the ring. 

She walked slowly back to her work, turning the 
pin over thoughtfully in her hand. In the kitchen, 
Shelly bent over the sink, still, singing lustily: 

“Fiah in de east, 

Fiah in de west 

Fiah done bu’n up de wilderness.” 

Booker stood in the doorway, an unholy grin of 
satisfied vengeance on his face. 

“Look out Shelly, dar come Granny, en I boun’ 
she make you think fiah done bu’n you up fer steal- 
in’ dat ring.” 

“You git out o’ heah nigger,” Aunt Delphy said, 
savagely, “I gwine ter bus’ you open.” She made a 
backhanded lick at Booker, who dodged beneath 
her hand and slipped out at the door. He put his 
tongue out at Shelly as he went by. 

“I tol’ you dat you better ’vide dat cake wid 
me.” 

Aunt Delphy went thoughtfully to the stove and 
opened the door. 


MISS JULIE’S RING 


155 


“I am gettin mos’ too ol’ ter be larrapin’ es big 
er gal es Belshazar,” she muttered, “but I aint 
gwine ter be gibin’ no reward fer stealin’,” And 
she dropped the pin into the glowing coals. 





COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 


J 





COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 


U LSA Breen, practicing attorney, sat in her 
office at the end of the long corridor, down 
which few clients found their way. For two years 
Elsa had sat in her office, waiting for people to find 
her out, while she made a fetish of professional 
ethics. 

“Them notions is mighty fine. Miss Breen,” said 
the fat, heavy-faced man, whose office fronted the 
street and whose waiting room was always crowd¬ 
ed, “but they won’t go in these parts. You gotta 
play the game.” 

Elsa felt like raising the window when he was 
gone. The atmosphere became stifling in his pres¬ 
ence. But this morning, as she sat toying with the 
silver paper cutter, she was wondering if after all 
he was right; if it would be possible to practice law 
and not “play the game,” as her neighbor had 
called the chicanery of questionable practice. 

She put forth a long, delicate hand and pulled a 
vase of roses close enough to bury her face in them. 

“I won’t give up,” she whispered, “nor will I 
compromise. Daddy stayed above the muck and 
mire, and I will do the same.” 

With a sigh she put the roses back in place and 


159 


6 o 


COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 


took up a volume of Roberts on Personal Injuries. 
Elsa was studying her first important case—a suit 
for damages against the L. & N. Railroad Com¬ 
pany. The law was clear; the principles were al¬ 
luring, full of the beautiful teachings of equity, jus¬ 
tice and right. But the facts—Elsa puckered her 
pretty young face—facts were such stubborn things. 
In her two years at the bar, Elsa had learned that 
on an average there were about nine questions of 
fact to one of law, and down the clear, logical 
pathway of the evidence she had been able to un¬ 
earth, she saw her high hopes of a big verdict go 
glimmering. Her disappointment was acute. 

“Any way, I am not in as bad a fix as Mr. Tutt, 
who found both the law and the facts against him,” 
she thought with a smile, “and he always won.” 

She got up to put the book back in place, and 
stood listening to footsteps coming down the hall, 
slow, uncertain, shuffling footsteps. Elsa listened. 
Once they paused and went back up the hall, to¬ 
ward the office of the heavy-faced man at the front. 
Elsa smiled—they nearly all went back. But, 
then, they turned and came with a more certain 
tread back to Elsa’s door, and at the timid knock, 
she called: 

“Come in.” 

“Mawnin’, Missy.” 


COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 


i6i 

Elsa gave a start. The gnome-like little negro 
man standing in the door-way was so comical that 
she could scarcely suppress a smile. 

“Is you de lawyer, Missy?” 

“I am.” Elsa sat up and tried to look dignified, 
but there was something about the old black face, 
with its prominent eyes and teeth out of all pro¬ 
portion to the rest of his anatomy, that she found 
it hard to do. Her artist’s mind was rapidly cat¬ 
aloguing him as to type, characteristics and habits. 

“White man’s negro,” she tabulated, “loyal to 
the point of worship; improvident; thriftless; 
probably drunken—” A pungent odor and a slight 
bleary look about the eyes helped her to this con¬ 
clusion. 

“What can I do for you?” Elsa indicated a 
chair at the end of her desk, but the old man con¬ 
tinued to stand, nervously twirling his hat. 

“Might as well sit down,” she urged, “you can 
talk better.” 

He sank into a chair, but sat poised on the edge 
as a bird teeters on a limb, ready for flight. 

Elsa smiled at his evident confusion. Was it 
because she was a woman, she wondered, or was he 
dreading to divulge the nature of his crime? She 
had readily put his case on the criminal docket. 
Probably another bootlegger—new to the game, 
else he would have stopped at the front. 


COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 


162 

“Well, what is the trouble? Have you been 
‘caught with the goods’, as the boys say—bootleg- 
ing, is it?” 

“No’m, Missy—that is—I aint,” he stammered, 
then gaining confidence from a closer study of her 
face, he began in a more positive way: 

“ ’Taint me dat’s cha’ged wid no crime. Missy, 
hit’s er frien’ o’ mine. A young white man whut I 
done knowed all his life, en his folks afore him, 
done gone en got inter tr’uble en I wan’er—” he 
paused and sat a moment with his eyes on the door. 

“Hit’s like dis,” he said at last, deciding to make 
a clean breast of it, “I’s ol’ en tough, en des er nig¬ 
ger enyways, en er chaingang sentence wont hu’t 
me, but hit would go purty hard wid Mr. Robert, 
en ’sides hit would des ’bout kill his ma. Miss 
Mary is bin so good ter me, dat I’s ready ter do 
enything ter sabe her frum de disgrace I see cornin’ 
her way, lessen sumpen done fer ter sabe Mr. 
Robert.” 

“Wait,” Elsa held up her hand, “Uncle—” 

“Mose,” he supplied. 

“Uncle Mose, the law won’t permit you to be 
punished for another man’s crime. As fine as the 
spirit is that prompts you to offer to make the sac¬ 
rifice, it can not be done.” 

“No’m,” said Mose humbly, “not efen de law 


COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 163 

knows hit, hit won’t, but howcome. Missy— I see 
many er man punished fer ’nuther’s crime.” 

“So have I,” said Elsa sadly, “but that is not the 
intent of the law.” 

“No’m, Missy, but de ’tent o’ de law, en de ’tent 
o’ de lawyers is not alius de same t’ingj en er right 
kind o’ lawyer kin ’feat de ’tent o’ de law. I’se see hit 
done lots o’ times.” 

“I don’t do that sort of practice,” Elsa drew her¬ 
self up indignantly. 

“But lis’en, Miissy, hit’s like dis. De young 
white man is caught wid whiskey in his room, en ef 
sumpen aint done, dat jedge gwine ter sen’ him ter 
de chaingang, en he’l be mint, en hit ’ll kill Miss 
Mary, but hit aint gwine ter hu’t Mose fer ter wu’k 
in de chaingang no wuser den ter wu’k enywhar 
else. How come I can’t tell de jedge dat I put dat 
whiskey dar unbeknownst ter Mr. Robert, whilst I 
wus cleanin’ his room? Den, maybe he’d let Mr. 
Robert go, sabe Miss Mary de disgrace o’ her son 
bein’ sont ter de chaingang, en des sen’ Ol’ Mose 
instid.” 

“Did you put it there?” 

The question was direct and Elsa bent forward 
trying to read the very heart of the old man, who 
was proposing this strange thing. 

“No’m, Missy, but I kin say I did—God don’ 
min’ er lie lak’ dat.” 


164 


COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 


“I wonder,” Elsa whispered, but aloud she said: 
“Tell me just what you want to do.” 

“I wants ter go in ter de co’t en tell de jedge dat 
I put dat whiskey in Mr. Robert’s room, ’tendin’ 
fer ter take hit out en sell hit, en I wants er lawyer 
fer ter tell me how ter git in ter de co’t, en des how 
ter tell dat tale so es ter make hit stick, en not 
spring er leak.” 

“That is, you want a lawyer to help you build 
what Kipling calls a ‘water tight lie’, ” laughed 
Elsa. 

“Yas’m, Miissy, Yas’m. I don’ know Mr. Kip- 
lun, but dat is des ’zactly whut I wants. En I’s got 
fifty dollars ter pay de lawyer fer ter he’p me fix 

hit.” 

“You have come to the wrong place. I cannot 
help you. I—Oh, you are better than I am, maybe, 
to want to make this sacrifice, but I cannot help you 
to deceive the court; I cannot help you build your 
lie.” 

Mose was turning sadly away, then suddenly he 
looked back with a wry attempt at a smile: 

“I thought a ’oman would do better den er man,” 
he said, “ ’case when dey sets dey min’s ter hit, dey 
sholy am ’ceitful critters.” 

Elsa laughed softly. She did not resent the in¬ 
dictment against her sex. She stood silent a mo¬ 
ment, then she said: 


COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 


165 


“I know who—” 

Was she being a party, she wondered, but con¬ 
tinued, “The man up the hall will help you. Give 
him the fifty dollars and tell him what you want—■ 
you needn’t even tell him why, the fifty dollars will 
be convincing.” 

When he had turned into the office at the front, 
Elsa closed her door and sank into a chair with a 
broken, nervous laugh. 

“I wonder what is right?” she whispered. 

The next morning Elsa went to court, and, al¬ 
though she had never made a habit of lingering 
over the criminal docket she sat through the day, 
determined to see the outcome of Uncle Mose’s 
effort to sacrifice himself. 

When she went at nine o’clock she found the 
benches in the Superior Court room filled to their 
capacity with witnesses, spectators and men sum¬ 
moned for jury service. 

The gallery above, set aside for negroes, was 
filled with rows of black and brown faces, from 
which every vestige of intelligence or interest had 
intentionally been wiped. 

Elsa had long since found that the negroes’ 
chief armor of defense, when they found themselves 
in the court room, was this mask of animal-like 
stupidity, with which they clothed their counte¬ 


nances. 


COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 


166 

She quickly located Uncle Mose, sitting hunched 
down in one of the front seats, his gnome-like face 
wearing an expression as enigmatic as the Sphinx. 

Inside the railing, where Elsa had taken her 
seat, everything was astir with the business of the 
law. The prosecuting attorney, a big over-tower¬ 
ing man, with grim purpose written all over his 
face, came and took his seat at the prosecuting 
table. Fie began to arrange the batch of papers, 
which Elsa recognized as accusations, and she found 
herself speculating upon which one was marked 
“The State versus Robert Mann”. At the table 
set aside for defense’s counsel, Elsa recognized her 
neighbor, Mr. Cagle, and concluded that the rak¬ 
ish, dissolute looking young man at his side must 
be Robert Mann. Over in the corner the court 
stenographer sat playing idly with the long, slim 
pencils, sharpened at both ends, that lay in profu¬ 
sion at his elbow, while the clerk and the sheriff 
were busy over the jury list. 

“What is holding up the traffic?” asked a young 
lawyer, facetiously, addressing the man on Elsa’s 
left. 

“Fiunting the twelfth good man and true, to 
make up a jury,” was the answer, “and they are 
having a harder time than Diogenes with his lan¬ 
tern.” 


COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 


167 


Elsa shrugged. She wondered how long it 
would take her to feel sufficiently at home in the 
court room to make a jest. To her the law, espe¬ 
cially criminal law, was grim business. 

There were many things to which she tried to ad¬ 
just herself as the day went by, and she sat watch¬ 
ing the mill of the court, like the mill of the gods, 
“grind slowly but exceeding fine.” 

“We, the jury, find the defendant guilty,” came 
with such certainty and regularity, that the words 
made themselves into a little song of woe and beat 
over and over in her brain until she was sick and 
dizzy. But she still sat patiently. 

Finally the case of The State versus Robert 
Mann was called. She caught her breath and wait¬ 
ed. Her neighbor, with the fat, heavy face, oily 
hair and a mouth that looked like a meat chopper 
got to his feet, rubbed his hands together and 
smiled his sleek, oily smile. 

“May it please Your Honor,” he began, “this is 
a peculiar case, a very peculiar case. Mr. Solicitor 
and I have put our heads together and we have 
agreed that I may present to you the very peculiar 
circumstances connected with this case, and let you 
pass upon the facts without the intervention of a 
jury.” 

The judge let his shrewd gray eyes rest upon the 
lawyer’s face. 


COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 


168 

“All right, Mr. Cagle, let us have the facts.” 

“My client, Mr. Mann, admits a priina facie case; 
the goods were found in his room; he admits that it 
is his room, under his control. Fie also admits that 
he had been drinking—the fact is. Your Honor, he 
w^as pretty well ‘tanked up.’ He had just come 
from a little party out at Hollingsworth Road 
House. He left there with a party of friends, all 
about in his condition, and the officers followed 
them on account of the noise they were making— 
followed Mann to his room, searched it and found 
the whiskey. Mr. Mann has protested all along 
that he knew nothing of the whiskey; that it was not 
his, and that he had no knowledge of who put it 
there or when, but in the face of all the circum¬ 
stances, we knew it would be useless to plead that. 
Mr. Mann had intended to plead guilty to technical 
possession of the whiskey and ask you to be as len¬ 
ient as possible. But yesterday a strange thing hap¬ 
pened—an almost unbelievable thing. The man, who 
is responsible for the whiskey being in Mr. Mann’s 
room came to my office, and says that he cannot sit 
by and see Mr. Mann punished for his crime. And 
in order that he may be corroborated, Your Honor, 
we have witnesses here to swear that they purchased 
whiskey from this man, Mose Driver, and that he 
told them he kept it in Mr. Mann’s room, he being 


COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 


169 


janitor for that apartment and also cleans and keeps 
Mr. Mann’s clothes, having access to his closets.” 

Judge Sears sat pulling thoughtfully at the lock 
of gray hair that fell across his forehead. 

“Put up your man, Mr. Cagle,” he said laconical- 

ly- 

Mose was put on the stand and told an intelligent, 
probable tale. To Elsa, even, who knew the inside, 
it sounded reasonable. 

“Yas, sar, yas, sar, Jedge,” Mose said, “I put de 
whiskey in Mr. Robert’s room, unbeknownst ter him. 

I alius take keer o’ his room, en lay out his clo’se. I 
I been puttin’ de whiskey whut I sol’ dar er long 
time, en Mr. Robert he aint neber look in ter dat 
little nook in de dark closet fer nuffen; he aint had 
no ’spicion I wus sellin’ whiskey. I aint neber sell 
him none; hit wus des whut you call ‘white light- 
nin’ ’ taint fitten fer Mr. Robert ter drink. I sol’ hit 
mos’ly ter niggers.” 

Mose sat in the witness seat, his head bowed, de¬ 
jected, shamed, the correct picture of a guilty man, 
but once Elsa’s eyes met his and she read in them 
the unholy joy of one who gloats over the perfection 
of the lie he is telling. 

From his face, her eyes traveled to the face of 
Robert Mann, weak, sensual, utterly selfish, but 
something of the strain under which he sat showed 


170 


COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 


in the tightly clasped hands that hung at the ends of 
his rigid arms. She saw his knuckles go white under 
the intensity of his grip. Once he made a forv/ard 
motion of his body, as if he tried to get to his feet, 
but then sank back and sat still. Elsa persistently 
tried to catch his eyes, but could not; they evaded 
hers, wavering from Mose to his attorney, back to 
his feet and stayed there, while his face settled into 
sullen rebelliousness and from that to stolid indif¬ 
ference. 

“That’s his death warrant,” thought Elsa, and her 
clear, gray eyes went back to Mose as he came awk¬ 
wardly down from the stand, passing her chair with 
a dejected, dragging step, but from under his shaggy 
eyebrows his eyes looked into her own, as he passed. 

“ ’Taint no hahm ter lie lak’ dat,” his eyes in¬ 
sisted. 

“You are a better man than I am, Gunga Din,’ ” 
she quoted, although she knew he could not under¬ 
stand. 

There were other witnesses, three of them—two 
men and a woman. They also told probable tales of 
having purchased whiskey from Mose Driver. And 
the woman said he had shown her where he kept it 
in “a little cubby-hole in Mr. Mann’s closet.” 

Elsa sat listening to the questions and answers 
meet each other upon the footing of old acquaint¬ 
ances, and the chill of mental nausea crept over her. 


COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 


171 

“He certainly knows how to play the game,” she 
thought as her eyes rested upon Cagle, her neighbor, 
“I wonder—” 

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the 
voice of the Judge. 

“Stand up, Mose, and receive your sentence.” 

Mose stood up and not an eye-lid quivered, as the 
judge pronounced the sentence. 

“Twelve months’ hard labor in the chaingang.” 

For a moment Mose stood looking silently into the 
judge’s face. 

“Yas, sir, Jedge, thankee, sir.” 

And Elsa went sick with fear that the Judge might 
read the riotous joy she saw in his eyes as he turned 
toward her; that he might see through the whole 
fiasco and order the case against Robert Mann to 
proceed. 

“Fear!” With a shiver she realized that it was a 
distinct fear, and that she was lined up on the side of 
those seeking to defeat justice. What a muddle it 
all was. 

The next moment, she was standing gripping the 
back of her chair. Court had adjourned. The offi¬ 
cers had taken charge of Mose, and had led him 
toward jail and twelve months of hard labor, wear¬ 
ing the insignia of disgrace. 

She had watched Robert Mann check the good 


172 


COUNSEL FOR DEFENSE 


impulse that had carried him one step toward Mose, 
then turn and slink down the back stairs,—back to 
his life of shame and licentiousness. The stenog¬ 
rapher was gathering up his scattered notes. The 
clerk was arranging his papers. The gray-haired, 
venerable Judge came by and laid his hand on her 
shoulder. 

“Not a cheerful thing to see justice administered, 
eh. Miss Elsa?” 

“Justice!” Elsa slipped from under his hand, 
with a hysterical laugh. “Did you say justice. 
Judge Sears?” 

Judge Sears cast a keen, questioning look at her 
flushed face and shook his head. He had expected 
better things of Elsa Breen. He had thought her 
too well balanced to grow sentimental and maudlin 
over a sentence pronounced on a negro, who plead 
guilty to selling whiskey, and worse, to secreting 
it in a white man’s closet. 

“Don’t take things too hard. Miss Elsa,” he 
said kindly, as he put on his hat, as if to go, “I 
might have known, though, that your woman’s 
heart would have led you to the side of defense 
always.” 

“No, not always.” said Elsa, “I believe in en¬ 
forcing the law. But when the time comes to try 
Mose for the real crime he has committed, I do 
want to be written down as Counsel for Defense.” 



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